


Nobody's Listening

by salazarsslytherin (dust_ice_fire)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dust_ice_fire/pseuds/salazarsslytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is six years old when he survives the crash that kills his parents. Now mute and suffering in the aftermath, Sherlock is taken under the wing of Gregory Lestrade, a foster parent with a focus on special cases, and his current ward John Watson. Will John be able to help Sherlock find his voice again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer! Sherlock Holmes and all recognisable characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the particular ones I am using were re-imagined by the likes of the BBC. I do not own anything you recognise, I am just stealing other peoples' creations, torturing them, and handing them back slightly worse for wear (though, let's be honest; nothing I do to them will compare with what the BBC writers will, this is like a holiday for the poor guys).
> 
> PLEASE READ! I feel like there should be some form of trigger warning here but I'm not sure what for – trauma and parent death, certainly, bullying if that counts, hints of past abuse in later chapters (more specific warnings will be put before those specific chapters). I don't pretend to know anything about psychology and for this fic I have largely gone from how I imagine a child such as Sherlock Holmes would react in this situation and then googling (a lot of googling) PTSD in children. (This is the end of the need-to-read, you can skip to the story now if you want.)
> 
> I apologise now for any inaccuracies in this (and there are bound to be hundreds) – if any of you out there have experience with this or tips/pointers on symptoms and effects of PTSD in children and selective mutism I would be forever grateful for your input. I am also clueless (aside from what google can tell me) about foster parenting and how the general process works; I have tried to be as vague as possible because the process is not at all important to the story, but again if you know anything that could help or I have done something drastically wrong, please let me know as I'd like to be as accurate as possible.
> 
> I am, for the purposes of this fic, going to use the speculated date of January 6th as Sherlock Holmes' birthday, and it is set in the present because I don't know anything about growing up a few decades ago.
> 
> If you're feeling kind I'd greatly appreciate if you left a comment with what you thought; I'm not at all sure if this is a fic that will even be read so any feedback is most welcomed.

 

 

**_January 5_ _th_ _, 2:06pm_ **

_(there is no grief like the grief that does not speak ~ Henry Wordsworth)_

* * *

 

 

What Sherlock remembers most clearly about That Day is the cake. He remembers with perfect clarity not the winter sun glinting golden in his mother's hair, nor his father's somewhat rare smile over his shoulder nor the brush of Mycroft's blazer against his arm. He doesn't remember like it was just minutes ago the frosted white of snow on trees or the sound of the gasp his mother made as the car skidded. He remembers like the faintest whisper the bang and the shooting pain, the scream and the skidding, his father's hand clutching his knee from where he sits as though that will somehow keep Sherlock safe, Mycroft screaming as the world swirls by outside.

He remembers these things but what he remembers most clearly is after. It is when he is lying on the cold, wet ground with melted snow seeping through his clothes, his hair falling into his eyes and the wheels still spinning on their car. His mother and father and Mycroft are there too but Sherlock doesn't look at them, not yet. All he can look at is the cake.

It was going to be a nice cake; Sherlock had been looking forward to eating it all week. They'd had the baker make it specially. It said 'Happy Birthday Sherlock' on top in blue icing with a sugar model of a dinosaur, because he likes those at the moment. It was a Spinosaurus; those are Sherlock's favourite – he likes the bigger ones, he likes to think they're vicious enough that they could bite all the boys at school who push him down. They don't, of course, because they aren't real any more, but Sherlock likes to pretend.

The Spinosaurus is a little broken pile of green now and the cake his mother had been clutching in her lap is crushed. It was yellow sponge, once. Now it's red with blood from the road, a trail of it that leads all the way to Sherlock's mother where she lies broken and lifeless. Sherlock doesn't look at her; he's staring at the cake. It's congealing with blood, getting darker as it soaks in deeper and deeper. His cake.  _His_ cake, crushed, covered in blood but still smelling of warm, fresh sponge.

Sherlock doesn't know what to think, or say, or do, and so he cries.

He is still crying when the police arrive, and when he stops he doesn't make another sound.

It would be eight months before he spoke again.


	2. Chapter 2

**March 15th, Just After Lunchtime**

* * *

Gregory Lestrade is a man who looks tried but smiles anyway. He's got grey flecks in his hair and his eyes are bright. He has big hands and a deep voice and Sherlock looks up at him when he walks into the room but doesn't do anything else. He's almost forgotten how to do anything else, his tongue dead with misuse, his words dancing just  _there_  but never able to come through lips that refuse to cooperate.

His fingers tighten a little on a plastic car; he hates them but it's something to hold onto. This one is red and it has a blue stripe all along the side. Sherlock thinks it's stupid; cars don't have that in real life, they're just one colour, but it's only a toy. He drops it when he realises he's holding it so tightly it hurts a little and it bounces on the floor after hitting his shoe. The noise of it drags Sherlock's gaze downwards and it stays there, focused on unlaced trainers and the hems of his jeans.

Mrs Hudson ushers Mr Lestrade through but the man stops and Sherlock can feel his gaze on the top of his head but he doesn't move until both of them have disappeared into the kitchen. "We'll be right back, dearie," Mrs Hudson assures him and Sherlock sits down after the door has closed. He knows they're talking about him; he thinks he might be moving soon. He's not sure how he feels about that and he picks idly at a tiny hole in the carpet as he thinks about it.

It's nice, here. His bedroom is small and yellow and has a stripy quilt that Mrs Hudson made especially for him. There's a little drawer on the floor for Tagger and at the thought of the rabbit Sherlock starts into motion, surging from his place on the floor with a sudden panic gripping his heart. He doesn't realise he has made a gasp or any sound at all until Mrs Hudson's kind face has stuck around from the kitchen and she's walking towards him.

"Just here, Sherlock – remember?" she asked, plucking the stuffed animal from beside the television and handing him over. Sherlock sags with relief and takes the toy, fingers curling around the tag on its back and pushing its ears up just beneath his nose. He is silent, of course, but Mrs Hudson knows by now that the wide eyes and the tension leaking from his face is thanks, for him. She smiles and runs her fingers softly over his curls before she disappears back into the kitchen.

Sherlock sits down again and pushes his back against the armchair, Tagger held close as he draws his knees up to his chest. He sort of wants to listen at the door but he's comfortable here and he's found just the perfect place of the rabbit's ears; so soft and the smell is almost like the powdery scent, flowered and familiar and painful but so, so sweet. Sherlock isn't sure what it is; when he tries to remember he feels a hot pain in his chest and the pressure in his throat that means he's about to cry so he stops trying and drifts instead.

* * *

When he wakes up Mr Lestrade is just leaving, pulling his coat on by the door. He freezes when he realises that Sherlock is awake and his face breaks into a smile that lights him up like the Christmas tree Sherlock remembers from another life, from Before. "Hello, Sherlock," he greets calmly, quiet. Sherlock is feeling odd with sleep and he stretches out his legs, staring up at the man with Tagger clutched in clenched fists.

"This is Mr Lestrade, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson tells him. Sherlock already knows this; he heard them talking at the front door when he arrived, and before on the phone, but he doesn't say that. He just watches Mr Lestrade and decides that he likes him because he has little lines at the edges of his eyes when he smiles and the smile looks so  _right_  there that Sherlock thinks he must do it a lot. That's nice; he likes that. He likes it when people smile, his own lips so rare to obey the command when he tries it. He tries it now, because he feels like he wants to with Mr Lestrade smiling at him. It doesn't work, not really. Sherlock can't remember how to make it work it's been so long since he wanted to smile - it's almost as lost as his words. He gets to his feet though, and keeps his eyes on the man.

He's coming closer and Mrs Hudson shuts the door quietly. "My real name's Gregory though, Sherlock," he says, and he is still smiling. He stops a little while away and crouches down. "Or Greg, sometimes. It's a bit of a boring name, not like yours. I like yours. And who's this?" He makes no move towards Tagger but his gaze is on the rabbit so it's clear who he's talking about and he continues quite normally, because he knows that Sherlock isn't going to respond and doesn't want him to feel like he has to. Sherlock knows that his rabbit's name is Tagger and he almost wants to tell Mr Lestrade (Gregory, Greg sometimes) but he's forgotten how. "A rabbit! I had an elephant, when I was younger. Nippy, I called her, and I took her with me  _everywhere_." He laughs a little and then leans forward like he has a secret and Sherlock finds himself leaning a little as well, wanting to hear what he says next.

"I still have her," Gregory, Greg sometimes, confides and Sherlock's expression changes to one of wonderment, one that's so nearly a smile it brightens Lestrade's whole day. The man straightens up regretfully because time is tugging at him but his smile is still in place and it still looks like it's just  _meant_  to be there. "I have to go now, Sherlock, but I hope to see you again very soon, okay?"

Sherlock nods once, his head tipping towards the ground so his nose bumps against the rabbit. After Lestrade has gone and when Mrs Hudson has gone to fetch tea and warm milk, with his nose and mouth buried in Tagger's soft head, Sherlock's lips pull just slightly into a smile of his own.


	3. Chapter 3

**April 21st; 4:11pm**

* * *

Lestrade visits lots of times; Sherlock counts them off by himself when he grows bored. The first time, then the second where they drank hot chocolate in the kitchen, the third where Lestrade built a racing car track through the living room and played with him for hours, the fourth when he became the thing Sherlock looked forward to each week, the fifth when he was allowed to hold Tagger and the sixth when he was presented with a picture.

This is the one that has just been; Sherlock's hands are still green from the painted grass. He smiles when he sees the man and receives one in return. Sherlock knows that he will be allowed to stay with Lestrade soon; he knows that that was the point of the visits and the smiling and he doesn't mind that he played along because he sort of liked it, really. Lestrade smells nice and he doesn't ask Sherlock if he feels like talking, he doesn't ask him questions and wait for an awkward beat before realising that he will not get a response - he just chatters away enough for both of them.

Sometimes, sometimes Sherlock almost does speak to him. Sometimes he almost remembers that he  _can_  use words to make things happen, but he has forgotten how to. He doesn't remember what his voice sounds like, though he can remember the sound of his own cries in his ears on That Day. Sherlock stops thinking about that quickly, because his body punishes him when he does, it makes his chest hurt and his throat ache and his eyes sting. His body understands that That Day is not one to be remembered, like the smell Tagger sometimes gets on his ears, and it stops him before he can.

"Oh, wow Sherlock!" Lestrade is genuinely pleased with the paper he's been handed; Sherlock can tell, but he can also tell that he is holding back some. He's probably afraid of overdoing it but his big hands are holding the paper so very delicately and even when he looks at Sherlock his eyes stray back every now and then. Sherlock feels pleased at that; he likes that Lestrade likes his picture.

It isn't much, really. It's a house and there are people; Sherlock doesn't know them but there are four - two adults and two children. It's a nice house. It has a red door and a number on the front but Sherlock doesn't remember what the number is and when he tries to his body does the thing with his chest so he stops and puts a little circle of blue there instead.

There's grass out front and everyone is smiling; the man, the lady, the big boy and the little boy. Sherlock sort of wants it for himself, but he wants Lestrade to have it more. He wants the man to take it home with him so he'll remember to come back again. Sherlock has loads he wants to show him, he has a lot he wants to tell him and he's storing it all up for when he can, for when his words come back.

"Look I've got to go kiddo but maybe next time I come over you can come and visit me, okay? I think you'll like my house, we have a swing and footballs. There's a little paddling pool, just enough for your feet, probably. John likes it, but he splashes sometimes. I won't let him splash you, though, not if you don't want. Would you like that?"

This question is all for him; Mrs Hudson is standing at Lestrade's shoulder but he asked Sherlock and this is his decision. He can decide yes or no, whatever he wants. Sherlock already knows, though, and he nods shyly. Lestrade grins and straightens up, almost reaches to ruffle Sherlock's hair and then seems to catch himself, pulling his hand back. "'Til next time." He waves and smiles some more and then he's gone.

Sherlock opens his mouth and he wants to say  _thanks_  or  _yes_  or  _bye_  but nothing comes out - he can't remember what shapes the words are, can't remember how they're supposed to feel on his tongue. Instead he reaches for Tagger, now sporting a red patch on his belly, and rubs the ears gently against his nose and he smiles in the safety of the soft, familiar fabric.


	4. Chapter 4

**May 2nd, 11:02am**

* * *

Lestrade is right; Sherlock does like his house. It doesn't have a red door like the one Sherlock has in his head, the door to nowhere, a door from before That Day, a door he doesn't remember quite right, but it's nice anyway. It's green and it has glass in the front; Sherlock can see a pale shape through the frosted panes as he walks up the path on Lestrade's heels.

The shape, which Sherlock now realises is a person with light hair, runs back away from the door as Lestrade pulls out a key and he's standing, waiting in the hallway when the pair steps through with one of the social workers following just behind. Sherlock doesn't like her; she comes around sometimes and asks him questions but he won't, doesn't ( _can't_ ) answer and she looks disappointed and he can't tell her that he's  _sorry_  because he's  _trying_ , he really is, but it just doesn't  _work_. She's got her clipboard and the clicky pen - Sherlock hates those pens, the sound they make. She used to do it methodically - up, down, up, down, click, click, click,  _click_  until SNAP and he'd broken it under his feet, stamping with bare soles and crying because he  _hates_  that clicking. That clicking forces images to the front of his mind, images he wants to ignore, things he wishes didn't exist but wishes don't come true so he only has to  _pretend_  they don't exist and that pen, the constant, quick click makes Sherlock think  _turning right_  and an arrow flashes on a dashboard and then a horn blares out of nowhere and it's pain and pain and  _pain_  and so he lashes out and he stops it, stops the clicking, and forces the memories back before they can choke him.

Miss Donovan had been surprised by his outburst but she hadn't yelled, had only picked up the pieces and Mrs Hudson had stuck a plaster on his foot and then she'd told him to go play in the other room so she and Miss Donovan could talk. He'd listened at the door that time but nothing any of them said made much sense and he'd grown bored of their conversation, carrying on with his Lego tower.

Sherlock stops on the threshold and he is still as he looks at the other boy. He's just as pale as he looked through the glass, his hair lying flat against his head - the exact opposite of Sherlock's dark and unruly curls. The boy is taller than Sherlock (most are) and he's about as skinny, but he has a grin on his face and he's bouncing on the balls of his bare feet, his trousers rolled up at the bottom so he won't trip on them.

"Hello!" he's said before Lestrade has a chance to open his mouth. "You were gone  _ages_ ," the boy then directs towards the man and his voice has drawn somebody from another room, a young looking girl who has a quiet sort of smile. She waves a few fingers at Sherlock and nods at Lestrade, who jerks his head towards the kitchen to indicate that they'll talk there in a moment. The girl nods, moving away. "Molly!" the boy calls out. "Molly I think the cookies are done! Are the cookies done?"

"I'm checking them now, John," she replies and Sherlock breathes in, realising that he can, indeed, smell cookies. His fingers tighten on Tagger but he likes the smell all the same; it smells warm and nice and like nights where he's snuggled up in bed with a flowery perfume smell lingering in the air and kisses on his curls. Tagger's soft ears are pressed against Sherlock's nose but he can't find the familiar smell today and Tagger's sole comfort is in his familiarity.

"Sherlock, this is John. John, this is-"

"Sherlock, I know." John is grinning and he takes the introduction as permission to bound over, stopping just short of Sherlock, whose eyes drag upwards to take the boy in. There is a long moment of silence while the two observe each other and then John has given a slight nod and steps back. "Want to come play on the swing? I can make it go so high you can see next door."

Tagger is being gripped more tightly than ever and Sherlock turns, briefly, looking behind him for Lestrade and Miss Donovan to see if he's allowed to go with John and Lestrade gives him a smile that is all the answer Sherlock needs. He follows behind as John leads the way through the kitchen (reaching out with lightning quick hands to grab two cookies from the tray Molly has turned her back on) and out into the garden.

It's big, much bigger than Mrs Hudson's, which is mostly taken over by vegetable patches and flower beds anyway. Lestrade has a lawn big enough that you could play football or tag on it and there are two trees right at the end. He has some flowers along the sides and a little table next to the back door, with chairs and a big umbrella that's folded down right now and flapping in a gentle breeze that lifts Sherlock's hair.

John is waving at him and yelling 'Come on!' but Sherlock is still standing just outside the doorway, taking it all in. He likes this, the open air, the green grass and the  _quiet_  – you can't hear any cars here, none at all. Sherlock likes that; he  _hates_  cars and he hates the horrible sound they make. He can hear them faintly at Mrs Hudson's but here it's like he's in a new world altogether and suddenly he doesn't want to leave.

"Sherlock!" John is calling again, standing on the swing with his fingers around the ropes that lash it to the tree branches overhead. "Come  _on_! Don't you want a go?" He bends his knees to send him back and forth and Sherlock watches, unmoving. John is going higher and higher, still standing and now laughing up at the sky, the ropes bending before they snap straight and he shoots back towards the ground, arcing back and then racing forwards again.

John's laughter is still flying up through the leaves above him, the swing going higher and higher. He's very far from the ground before he starts coming down and each time he seems to be even higher than the last. Sherlock's voice is stuck somewhere in his throat; he wants to yell out be  _careful_  please don't fall  _please_  and he's getting scared because John's so  _high_  and he's not much bigger than Sherlock. If he hits the ground he'll break and bleed and cry and Tagger is being crushed against Sherlock's chest as he watches and he can't  _breathe_  because John's going to  _fall_  and-

And then John's not falling but flying. He has leapt from the swing and it plunges through the air behind him, abandoned, while John lands catlike and rolls over and over in the grass. He is still laughing. He's okay. He's not hurt.

Sherlock remembers to breathe and he does so, quickly and then again and again and then he walks over with his knuckles still white on Tagger. His legs are shaking a bit so he collapses onto the grass a little way from John and hauls his knees towards his chest, Tagger trapped between them and his body.

"Hey, what's wrong?" John's rolling over to look at Sherlock and he's looking a bit worried now, getting to his knees and shuffling forwards. "Are you okay? You're very white. Are you going to be sick? Should I get Greg?"

He seems to be waiting for an answer and Sherlock has a moment of panic because he can't he can't say yes or no or maybe or anything and John is looking at him, waiting and watching and wondering and Sherlock can hear it in his head;  _freak. Speak, little freak – why don't you speak?_  And he  _can't_. He just can't.

But John doesn't call him a freak like the boys at school do and he doesn't push him or yank on his curls or snatch Tagger away and throw him through the basketball hoop. He's stopped laughing but he doesn't have a mean look on his face, he looks sorry and Sherlock doesn't know what to think about that.

"You really can't talk, can you?" he says softly, wondrously, and Sherlock closes his eyes and buries his face in Tagger's soft body.

 _No_ , he thinks.  _No no no_. He doesn't talk, won't talk, can't talk – they're all the same by now and Sherlock doesn't know which it is any more. All of them, maybe. He doesn't because he wouldn't and now he can't; now he's forgotten how to.

"It's okay," John says quickly, seeming to realise he's said something to upset the younger boy. "It's okay, I'm sorry Sherlock, Greg told me, he said not to...not to ask you. He said you needed us to be your friends and not to bug you to talk. I won't, okay? I won't bug you, I promise. I'm sorry I did – I'm sorry I said anything. We can be friends though, can't we? I really am sorry." Sherlock can't see the pitifully apologetic look on John's face but he can hear it in the other boy's voice all the same.

Sherlock would like to say  _yes_. He's never had a friend before, but people who don't speak don't have friends; he's learned this by now. So he says nothing and John shuffles awkwardly and is trying to decide what to do and he's hoping that Greg won't come out because he might be mad; he really did tell John not to try and make Sherlock talk but he just couldn't help himself.

"Do you want to go on the swing?" John asks after a moment when it becomes clear that Sherlock isn't going to do anything but sit there with his face hidden. "I'll push you, if you want. Or you can do it. I don't mind. It's fun, though. You really can see next door if you go high enough." Though John thinks that maybe Sherlock should stay a little lower, for today at least, because he's never seen a boy look so close to breaking as this one does and he doesn't want to be the one responsible for it. John would much rather  _fix_  him like he and Greg fixed that bird's wing just last month, only he's not sure how to fix a boy who can't say what's broken.

Sherlock looks up, slowly, but he doesn't move beyond that. John offers him a small, shy smile and reaches out a hand, fingers stopping just short of brushing Tagger's soft ears when the dark haired boy freezes. He doesn't yank the rabbit away, but he stays frozen and John drops his hand. "I have one like that," he confides quietly. "Only mine's a bear. And guess what." He leans a little closer and he's smiling, all white milk teeth around tooth-sized gaps and bright eyes and a smear of mud just under his eye. "Greg has one too. I've seen it, an elephant."

Sherlock knows; Lestrade told him, but of course he doesn't say that. He does smile a tiny bit though and John looks relieved, clambering to his feet. "You don't have to go on the swing if you don't want," he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the two squashed cookies. "This one's for you." He holds one of them out, the bigger one because Sherlock is small and needs it to grow, and a hesitant hand reaches out to take it.

He doesn't say thank you, but he wants to. John's cookie is gone within seconds, no more than crumbs on his t-shirt, but Sherlock puts his into his own pocket and later when he gets home he puts it in a box under his bed because his  _friend_  gave him this and Sherlock has never had a friend before. It is the first of many memories of John to end up in the box.


	5. Chapter 5

 

**May 9th, 5:36pm**

* * *

The next time Sherlock goes to Lestrade's house it is with a backpack of overnight supplies on his shoulders and a shy smile in place. John is waiting for them again, this time with the door open. He's leaning out with a grin plastered all over his features and he hops down the step as soon as he sees Lestrade and Sherlock walking down the street from the train station. Lestrade has a car, but Sherlock won't get in them so they've taken the slightly longer but altogether more pleasant train journey to get here.

The blond boy is barefoot, which Lestrade berates him for before ruffling his hair and poking him between the shoulderblades to urge him into the house, stepping back so Sherlock can follow before he steps in and closes the door. He's a little nervous, because although he likes Sherlock and he knows that Sherlock likes him, his house and John, tonight is the make or break - tonight is the deciding factor in whether or not he can take the dark haired boy on, the first long-term case he'll have had since John first came to him two years ago.

"Pizza?" he asks, taking Sherlock's bag from him and hanging it up by the door, on a hook easily reachable by children. He's already put a name sticker above it reading 'Sherlock' and the boy stops like stone when he sees, marveling at it. His fingers reach out and then he looks questioningly across at Lestrade, who smiles. "That's yours. Your hook. You can put anything you want on there."

Sherlock seems to like that a lot and he takes his bag off only to hang it up again and then nods, smiling himself now.

"I want pizza!" Of course John wants pizza; John  _always_  wants pizza. "I bet Sherlock does too, right?" This is directed at the dark haired boy, who turns with wide eyes and then bites his lip. John looks stricken, because he has just remembered that Sherlock doesn't reply to questions, but then Sherlock nods and John's expression clears. "All right! I want pepperoni and extra cheese! What-" He cuts himself off as he looks across at Sherlock, an awkward smile gracing his lips for a second as he remembers again. This, he muses, is going to be difficult, but he was never one for letting that small fact stop him and it only makes him more determined to be Sherlock's friend.  _Especially_  if he ends up living here, which John really hopes he will because Greg's fun and all but he needs another  _boy_  to play with, not an old man.

Greg had laughed when he told him that.

"Sherlock can show us which he wants," Lestrade says, leading the way into the kitchen and digging through a drawer for the menu, which he hands over to Sherlock. "You can choose anything you like."

John leans over Sherlock's shoulder and points. "That one's good, and that one too. Or you could have that one, it's got four different sorts of-"

"John, Sherlock probably wants to choose for himself," Lestrade says pointedly and John steps away with rolling eyes to climb up onto one of the stools beside the breakfast bar. Sherlock is gazing at all of the pictures and feeling quite, quite lost. He's never looked at one of these before, isn't even sure he's ever tried pizza, and they all look near enough the same to him.

In the end he points at a random one, which turns out to be disgusting, so he shares some of John's instead. He likes the ice cream they have for dessert, though. Chocolate, with fudge bits and swirls of caramel and he feels quite sick after but doesn't really regret eating it. John's managed to get it on his nose and Sherlock touches the end of his own to point this out to him, smiling shyly when the other understands correctly and wipes it off with a sleeve.

Sherlock goes to bed in a room that Lestrade says might be his one day; it's pretty simple, blue covers and wardrobe and paint, but Sherlock likes it because it's just for him. He curls up in the bed, more tired than he can remember being for a long time, only he can't sleep. He tries everything he can think of, shifting, tossing and turning and counting until eventually a head sticks around the edge of the door and John steals inside, dropping the stuffed bear he'd been carrying on the threshold.

"I thought you might still be awake," he whispers and Sherlock slips out of bed, bare toes curling into the carpet at his feet. His eyes are wide as he stares at John, who is moving about the room and turning on a lamp, grabbing a book and then sitting next to the bedside table, bathed in warm light. He pats the spot next to him and Sherlock sits. "My mummy used to read to me," John continues quietly, looking sad but somehow happy, an expression Sherlock isn't used to seeing. "When I couldn't sleep. Before she went away."

He looks across at Sherlock, who is staring straight ahead, shoulders rigid. He doesn't like the word  _mummy_  because it makes him feel all wrong inside and like he wants to cry, but somehow when John says it and when John looks at him it hurts a little bit less because this is his  _friend_.

"You lost yours too, didn't you," John whispers, almost silent.

For a long time neither of them do anything and then Sherlock nods, once, slowly. John doesn't say anything else on the matter; he only opens the book and starts to read.

When Lestrade comes in to check on Sherlock a little later he finds both boys curled up on the carpet, the book open between them and Sherlock's finger still resting on the sentence John had been reading when he drifted off.


	6. Chapter 6

**May 27th, Late Morning Through Evening**

* * *

 

It takes a few weeks of horrible waiting and meetings and reports and check-ups and visits from the social workers and Mrs Hudson taking him to see Mr Lestrade and meeting with the head teacher at his school to sort out his leaving but eventually, finally, Sherlock is allowed to go.  Mrs Hudson hugs him and pats Tagger gently on the head, makes sure one last time that his backpack is zipped up and then Mr Lestrade picks up the little suitcase that holds all of Sherlock’s clothes and the few toys he doesn’t hate and they start down the street to the train station.

Sherlock likes trains and spends most of the journey watching the land flick by out of the window, pausing when Lestrade buys him hot chocolate and a flapjack from the trolley and says  _don’t tell John_  with a conspiratorial wink, but Sherlock couldn’t tell John anyway.  He drinks his hot chocolate but keeps the flapjack, sticking it in his pocket as he looks out the window again.  

It’s starting to get dark when they arrive, Sherlock hopping out of the carriage with help from Lestrade, his bag on his back and his eyes full of everything there is to see at a train station.  Being as silent as he is, Sherlock tends to notice a lot of things that others don’t because he has little else to occupy his time with.  He likes doing it, cataloguing knowledge and facts and  _knowing_  things, knowing them in his head even if he can’t share them with other people.  It’s sort of like learning, but it’s not learning like at school - Sherlock  _hates_  school and he hates all the people there, the ones that call him names and push him down and the lessons are boring anyway.

But knowing - knowing, Sherlock likes.  It’s different, he feels, to school learning, because nobody is forcing him to do it, and it’s not boring.  He thinks he learned it from Mycroft, but he hasn’t seen his brother in so long he’s not sure, can’t even remember what he looks ( _looked_ ) like, or what his voice was like and he doesn’t  _want_  to remember because thinking about him hurts it  _hurts_  and Sherlock  _misses_  him and his fingers clench on the rail timetable he’d picked up, blue eyes gazing firmly at the lists of numbers he is trying to memorise as Lestrade leads him by the other hand.

They’re almost at Lestrade’s house now, and John is outside once again, with a blanket this time because the nights are cool with chilled breeze.  He’s sitting on the step but leaps up when he hears them walking along, racing to the gate and leaning over it with a grin all over his face.  “Sherlock, Greg!  I’ve been waiting  _ages_  and  _ages_  for you, Molly’s put on _two_  different films  _and_  we made a cake  _and_  we played hide and seek for _ever,_   _and-_ ”

“And now we’re back,” Lestrade finishes for him.  “And this time we can welcome Sherlock home.”

“Welcome!” John calls out grandly, flinging his arms to both sides and bounding ahead as Molly appears at the door.  “We were just about to put on another film so come  _on_ , Sherlock!  It’s Toy Story!”

Sherlock follows after a moment of hesitation; he’s never seen Toy Story before and he doesn’t really like watching the television, but John is so eager and Sherlock can’t say no anyway.  So they sit together on the sofa and watch as the toys come to life and Sherlock watches with a tight grip on Tagger because... _really_?  He wants to ask John if it happens, if it really happens, but he can’t.  They pause the movie for dinner, which the three of them eat at Lestrade’s scrubbed wooden table, and then they have some cake because John wouldn’t stop asking.

Toy Story is finished soon after that, then it’s time for a bath and bed because it’s getting late and Sherlock’s tired anyway - travelling on trains always makes him tired.  John moans a bit because he wants to watch Toy Story 2 but they decide that they will watch that one tomorrow, and number three as well, which appeases John well enough.

It’s not until later, when Sherlock and John are huddled under the blanket fort that John insisted on building, that Sherlock pulls the flapjack out of his dressing gown pocket.  He remembered it before he put his trousers in the laundry, but it’s still a bit squashed from its journey.  He means to give all of it to John because John’s his friend, but in the end they share it and John still lets Sherlock have the bigger half because Sherlock is still small and needs to grow.  

Not like John - John is eight, and that means he’s big enough to almost be a man, or so he reckons.  Sherlock’s still a boy, really, but that’s okay - John knows he can take care of both of them, like men are meant to do.  Not like his Daddy.  His Daddy never took real care of him, but John closes his eyes quickly and presses his fingers against the lids until fireworks explode inside his head because he doesn’t like thinking about that and he needs,  _needs_  to block it out.  

Greg always says he should come and find him whenever he wants to talk about his Daddy or his Mummy or anything - he says no matter what time, he should come find him, but John doesn’t like talking about it, doesn’t like it when they talk to him about it.  Sherlock doesn’t like talking either, John knows that, but he wonders if maybe, like John, Sherlock  _wants_  to talk but doesn’t know how to say it.

If he wants to say;  _My Daddy hurt me but I still miss him_  but, like John, doesn’t know how.  John just talks about other things instead but Sherlock doesn’t talk at all.  As he lays down and stares up at the blankets overhead, still in Sherlock’s room because it’s Saturday night and Lestrade supposed that it couldn’t do any harm, he wonders which is worse.  

 


	7. Chapter 7

**April 6th, 8:35am**

* * *

 

Sherlock is pale and trembling for the entire walk to school, his bag on his back, shoes laced tight and his new blue jumper bright, the same colour as the one John is wearing, but they’re not going to be in the same class.  Lestrade warned Sherlock about that, but that doesn’t make it any easier - already Sherlock likes John more than any boy he’s ever met, even the ones from before That Day because there is just  _something_  about the pale-haired boy that Sherlock can’t fathom but he likes it.

He likes that John doesn’t ask him questions like Miss Donovan does and he likes that John doesn’t shove him into the wall as he runs by.  No, when John runs by it’s with a yell of ‘Come on, Sherlock!’ as he races ahead along the path because  _he’s_  not scared of school.  Sherlock hates that he’s scared, he wants to be like John and run ahead and laugh and dance around the street-lights but he’s holding onto Lestrade’s hand so hard it’s a wonder he hasn’t left bruises and each step takes more effort than the last.

“It’s going to be alright, Sherlock,” Lestrade keeps saying comfortingly but no amount of comfort is enough right now.  “I’m coming in with you, and we’ll meet your teacher, okay?  Then John will be there at break-time and before you know it you’ll be coming home and we can have cookies, okay?”  The cookies were John’s idea (cookies are  _always_  John’s idea) but Sherlock does seem to perk up a little at the reminder; Lestrade has discovered that the dark haired boy has just as much of a sweet tooth as John, though he is not quite so vocal about it.  

“First day back’s  _always_  fun,” John says from where he is walking carefully along someone’s garden wall until Lestrade tells him to get down.  “You don’t even do any work, you just play games and stuff ‘cause you have to get used to not being on holiday anymore.”  Which was why John was so eager to get to school; Lestrade was well aware that next week, after the novelty of the first day back after half-term had worn off, it would be another story altogether.  

Sherlock glances across at him, wishing he could tell John that it’s not the work he hates it’s the other children, the ones who aren’t like John, the ones who hate him just  _because_  but he can’t so he says nothing, blue gaze fixing itself back on the pavement underfoot, stomach and tongue all tied up in knots.

It’s not too bad when he gets there; the walls are all painted brightly and covered in various drawings and painted tiles, large letters spelling out slogans above doorways and models hanging from the ceiling on bits of string but it has that school smell and that school sound - children laughing, shoes squeaking on shiny floors, teachers calling for quiet, doors opening and closing, a phone ringing in an office somewhere.

Sherlock melds himself closer to Lestrade’s side as he pauses at the reception desk and talks to the lady there while John points at various bits and talks about them but Sherlock can’t force himself to listen even to him.  He’s remembering faces, remembering cold puddle water seeping into the seat of his trousers as he hits the ground, the jeering and the pushing and the laughing - the never ending laughter that seemed to ring in his ears long after he’d gone home for the day even before he’d lost his words.  

“Sherlock?”

He snaps out of the reverie he was planted in and looks around.  There’s a kindly looking woman standing just in front of him, her hair brown but streaked with grey and pulled back.  She has glasses perched on her nose and a long skirt, a fluffy jumper and a smile but Sherlock doesn’t smile back.  He just looks at her blankly and holds onto Lestrade, realising belatedly that John isn’t nearby any more and the corridor is empty except for them.  

“I’m Mrs Winters, Sherlock,” she says, smiling wider but Sherlock doesn’t respond.  He’s watching her but his face betrays no hint of anything and then even his eyes drop to stare at the floor.  He wants John to come back, to fill the air with his chatter and reassurances but he’s gone to class now and Sherlock’s going to be on his own soon.  The thought makes him panic and his fingers squeeze against Lestrade’s hand and the man gets down onto his knees, his free hand gripping Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he says softly.  “It’s alright, Sherlock.  Mrs Winters is your teacher this year, she’s going to show you your class and introduce you to your classmates, okay?  She knows about you, she won’t try and make you talk but if you want to you can, you know that, right?”  Lestrade has mentioned this a few times, always casually - that he doesn’t have to talk but if he wants to, he can.  People will listen.  It’s never made any difference, though; Sherlock can’t remember how.  “John’s going to come find you at break-time and you’re going to have a great day, okay?”  

He straightens up and terror seizes Sherlock but Lestrade steps back out of reach as the boy’s hand darts out.  

“Hey - you’re going to be brave, aren’t you?  Like Woody.”  Sherlock looks up at him and half of him wants to leap forwards and grab hold of the man’s legs so he can’t be left with more strangers but the other half  _does_  want to be like Woody.  He wants to say  _yee-ha!_  and make loads of friends and play with John at break-time and in the end he has deliberated for so long that Mrs Winters has encouraged Lestrade to leave without him noticing and now he has no choice but to to go with her and be like Woody.  Woody wouldn’t be scared, and Sherlock doesn’t think John would be either, so he tries not to be.  

Mrs Winters has a soft voice that she uses to tell Sherlock about what they’ll be doing that day but he forgets as soon as she’s told him because he’s not paying much attention, too focused on trying not to be scared and think about how strange he feels without John or Lestrade or even Mrs Hudson or Miss Donovan there.  

He takes a seat at a table where he can see five other children.  They’re all looking at him curiously until Mrs Winters tells them that  _this is Sherlock, he’s new and I want you all to be very nice to him_.  Lestrade said that the schoolchildren had been told about the fact that Sherlock didn’t speak, had been asked not to try and force him to talk but to give a friendly ear if he ever did want to say anything.  Sherlock doesn’t think it will make much difference; they told them that at his old school but even the boys he’d played with before That Day thought he was strange and left him eventually.

Now he’s here and Sherlock knows it will be the same all over again and he just wishes he had John.  John doesn’t ignore him, he speaks enough for both of them but he never makes Sherlock feel left out.  He even  _plays_  with him, not caring that his companion doesn’t open his mouth to do more than suck in a gasp if John does something particularly daring during their games.  But John is two years older than Sherlock and his class is down the hall so Sherlock simply ducks his head and sits silently even when some of the children try and tell him their names and say nice things about his book-bag.  He doesn’t look up, he just stares at the desk because he doesn’t want their nice words he wants  _John_.

At break-time he goes outside with the rest of them and plants his back firmly against a wall to stare out across the yard.  There’s a boy standing dutifully beside him - Mrs Winters has assigned him as a sort of buddy so Sherlock doesn’t get lonely - but he’s looking longingly at the obstacle course and the patch of field his friends are kicking a football around on.  

“So...” the boy says, turning to Sherlock with a half-smile that is too awkward for such a young face.  “Sherlock.”   He’s clearly not sure what to say after that so slides down the wall to sit on the ground instead of trying to think of something.  Sherlock remains standing, his eyes focused on the door he knows John will come out of.  “Wanna come race?” the boy suggests (Sebastian, Sherlock remembers - his name is Sebastian) and is met with silence.  “You could play football with us,” Sebastian says a few moments later but Sherlock doesn’t respond.  “Or colouring in or something,” he adds slightly distastefully but Sherlock doesn’t speak and the boy gives up.

John appears ten minutes later and heads straight towards Sherlock despite calls of ‘Come on, John!  We’re gonna see who’s faster outta Callum and Jack!’, which was followed by jeering calls of ‘Callum,  _duuuh_!’ and ‘No  _way_  man!’ and a stampede of John’s classmates heading up to the field but John ignores them all and leans comfortably against the wall beside Sherlock.

The boy sitting at Sherlock’s feet stands up, watching John warily, but John only gives him a slight smile and then turns back to his friend, letting the younger boy head over to his own friends.  “Told you you wouldn’t do any work, didn’t I?” he says gleefully.  “First day’s  _always_  wicked.”

Sherlock makes a slight face and John laughs.  “Mrs Winters is nice, too.  She put loads of my pictures up on the walls when I was in her class, and she gives out tonnes of stickers.  Maybe you’ll get one later - you can add it to my collection, if you want.  I have all mine on the wardrobe door.  On the inside, ‘cause I thought Greg would get mad if they were on the outside.  He  _did_  get mad, actually,  _even though_  I stuck them inside but he’s never mad for long.  Or you could start your own collection,” John adds happily as the thought occurs to him.  “Greg said you’re really clever so I bet you’ll get  _loads_  of stickers and can cover your actual  _bedroom_  door.”

Sherlock smiles a little bit, not particularly because John has just said he’s clever (even though the fact that Lestrade thinks Sherlock is clever warms him inside; being bright was always his sole selling factor on school reports, something his mother had always smiled at him for and stroked his hair and dug out ice cream and- _stop_ ) but because John is talking like he always does, chattering away for both of them and Sherlock thinks that if he can have John, if John will be there for playtime and lunchtime and hometime then maybe, maybe he can get through.  

Maybe he can get through all of this, every day of every week until some time everything is better again.  It’s not something Sherlock has ever thought about before; things being better.  Feeling  _happy_ , not just in brief flashes but  _always_.  He’s thought about talking again, has hoped and wished for it, but with John maybe he can have more than just his words back; maybe he can have his life back, too.  Because if he has a friend, a friend like John, then the days After don’t seem quite as bad and the days Before don’t seem quite as far away and his words feel closer than ever.  

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please accept my apologies for being so late with this update, it shouldn't happen again; I hope you all forgive me and haven't abandoned this story due to the wait!

**April 24th; Afternoon Through Bedtime**

* * *

It is some days, some weeks, after that first day of school that Sherlock realises that John is not only a boy who makes him want to smile but he is a boy with a Before too.

They've made a habit of sleeping top-to-toe in Sherlock's room on the weekends; something about the closeness and the fact that John can tell stories late into the night makes everything nicer and calmer and they have a routine now where they brush their teeth and crawl into bed and yank the covers over their heads, wind up torches flicked on so they are buried inside a world all of their own. John always grins at Sherlock and offers to wind the torch and Sherlock always shakes his head; John tells the stories, and Sherlock can't do that, so he keeps their little sanctuary light and John talks until they both fall asleep and eventually the light flickers out and Lestrade comes in to straighten the blankets and the weekends sit warmly in Sherlock's memories.

Today is a Friday and John has been quiet since he came home from school. He shut his bedroom door very firmly as soon as he got in and he won't open it even for Sherlock, who spends almost an hour sitting outside the barred entrance until Lestrade convinces him to give John some time. He makes Sherlock hot chocolate and then heads upstairs to try and talk to John himself but he has as much luck as Sherlock, returning downstairs after telling John that whenever he was ready to talk about what was upsetting him he could come talk to him.

Sherlock's hot chocolate goes cold on the counter and he sits staring at the liquid with dread settling in his stomach because he just  _knows_  that John has lost his words, that's why he's not talking, that  _must_  be why he's not talking and the thought of John's words snatched away as well is too much to bear. Sherlock goes outside and swings for a while on the swing but it's not the same without John showing off by leaping through the air like a monkey and rolling through the grass with his high laughter spilling into the almost-summer air.

Dinner is full only of Lestrade's casual talk and his further attempts at getting John to tell him what's wrong. John's eyes are red and his cheeks are tear-stained but he says a hollow, "Nothing" when asked and eats his chicken in silence while Sherlock stares at him worriedly.

That night Sherlock climbs into bed alone and he pushes his back against the cold wall, pulling his legs up to his chest and gripping Tagger as he forces himself to breathe calmly. John said a word so that must mean he  _can_  but that means he doesn't want to talk to Sherlock. He must hate Sherlock, like everyone else does, like they all end up doing when they realise he's  _different_  because he knew too much about the fish they kept in the tank and the way the leaves worked on trees. The thing is that Sherlock didn't think John ever would and it  _hurts_  because he  _does_  and he'd thought that maybe John was _different_  but they're all the same and he'll always-

"Sherlock?" The door cracks open a tiny measure, light falling through from the hallway outside. "Can I come in?" John whispers, stepping half through the gap and hovering uncertainly. He cannot see Sherlock sag with silent relief or nod in the darkness but he pads inside anyway, pulling Sherlock's blankets off the bed without a word. Sherlock slips off and fetches the torch, winding it up and shining it at the floor as John goes about setting up a bigger blanket fort than they've ever had before. He pushes the edge of the duvet under the mattress and drapes the other side over the radiator, leaving for a moment to grab his own blankets and using them to ensure that no part of the world can creep inside.

John takes the torch from Sherlock and leaves it behind as he crawls into the makeshift tent, Sherlock following in silence. When they sit their knees bump and neither of them does anything for a long time. Sherlock can hear that John is crying silently but he doesn't know what to do about it so he stays still and quiet and he wishes he had the words to tell John  _it's okay it's alright don't cry please don't cry you're not supposed to cry-_

But he feels his own eyes sting as well and he brushes the tears away because they are not his they are  _John's_ , only tonight John is hurting so much it's hurting Sherlock too.

Eventually, though, John calms himself down and he moves, lying with his knees bent so he remains fully inside the tent. Sherlock shifts and lies next to him, his hands resting on his stomach. He doesn't have to bend his knees like John does; he just has to lie at a slightly odd angle because he's short enough to fit and John moves a little so he's closer to the boy who is quickly becoming not just his friend but his  _brother_  and he takes a deep breath.

"I miss my mummy," he whispers into the dark and his breath shudders uncontrollably for a second. "I miss her always but today I miss her especially."

Sherlock swallows. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

"But..." John continues and now he pulls one of his arms up and drapes it over his face as though even in the dark world they have created all for themselves he cannot bear for it to see him. "But I miss my  _daddy_  too," he says all in a rush and he sounds guilty and sad and relieved and a hundred other things Sherlock doesn't know a word for all at once. "And I know I shouldn't. But Mikey's dad came home last night and he's in the army and Mikey was so excited and talked about him all day and he came and hugged him at the gate and I miss  _my_  daddy."

John has to swallow again because his voice has gone too high and his throat is too small to talk properly but he  _has_  to talk because it's been inside him for so long it just hurts and  _hurts_  and he knows - he  _knows_  - that Sherlock won't ask him questions or tell him it's wrong or tell him it's alright or tell him not to worry and that is  _exactly_  what John wants. He wants to talk and talk and he doesn't want anyone to talk back because there aren't any words in the whole wide world of them that can fill the blackness that's coiled inside him and smells like Dad.

"I miss him sometimes, but not...not normally," he says quietly before sniffing softly and letting out a breath of a sigh. "When I remember him he scares me. But sometimes he was nice. Sometimes it was nice, me and Mummy and Daddy. We had..." He swallows again and takes several seconds to figure out his words before he speaks them. "We had a picnic once, in the park. All of us - as a family. And Mum made jam sandwiches and Dad doesn't like jam but he didn't even get mad. He laughed. He kissed Mummy on the cheek. He pushed me on the swings." His voice is so soft and so quiet Sherlock isn't sure how it sounds like it hurts so much but it does. In John's every word are a hundred emotions and they pull Sherlock in because it's almost like with John, he says so much and means so much with every one of his words that Sherlock doesn't need to speak, because John can do both parts. Sherlock just needs to be there.

"But...normally." And here John falters and Sherlock can hear his throat clicking as he swallows the emotions through a dry throat and into a stomach hollowed with sadness and grief that sounds just like how Sherlock feels inside when he remembers Before. "Normally," John speaks again after several minutes of silence, "he wasn't like that. Normally he was angry."

The way John says  _angry_  makes Sherlock shudder uncomfortably and he closes his eyes briefly, not wanting to let his imagination conjure up images to accompany John's uttered word but unable to stop it.

"He's a Bad Man," John says quietly. "That was what they told me. I know that, though. I know he's bad. But I still miss him. And I know I shouldn't, because...because Mummy. Because she's  _gone_  now and that  _hurts,_  I miss her  _every day_  but sometimes I miss Daddy as well and I don't know  _why_  because...because I  _hate_  him." And it goes silent for a long moment that stretches with shallow breaths and salted tears on a too-young face. "But I love him too."

Sherlock doesn't know what words he'd use even if he could, but his silence is exactly why John feels like he can say these things, why he feels safe to give the feelings words because he knows that of all people, Sherlock will never throw them back at him. So many people have tried to talk to him about his parents, about what happened on the day that everything changed and he became a lost boy instead of a son. He has a meeting every week with a doctor, a different one to Sherlock's, but John tells her about school and Greg and homework and, recently, Sherlock - never his parents, never the mum he aches for or the sister who abandoned him, never his dad and what he did. John doesn't know how to say those things even to Sherlock, who he knows he can say anything to. He doesn't think there are words big enough to capture how it feels and how it felt, so he doesn't bother trying to find any and as he lies silently in the darkness, feeling somehow better even though he hasn't really said anything, he wonders if that's why Sherlock doesn't speak. Not because he's forgotten or shy or just simply  _can't_  but because maybe there aren't any words for what Sherlock wants to say, and so he says nothing at all.


	9. Chapter 9

**June 3rd; The Crack of Dawn**

* * *

 

Sherlock still does not like school; it’s better than his old school, because John sits next to him in the playground and chatters away and sometimes he’ll coax Sherlock into nudging a football back and forth and sometimes he’ll sit shoulder-to-shoulder with the other boy and they will bury their heads in books.  But John isn’t there all the time, only at playtime, and so Sherlock still does not like it even though it is  _better_.  

That is why he is smiling when he wakes up one Monday morning in early June; he has an entire week with no school.  One whole week of just him and John and Lestrade and that soft feeling that is almost like family, by now.  Whatever it is, it’s comfortable and familiar and Sherlock likes it, so he takes a few minutes to himself to lie in the cocoon of blankets, John’s legs warm beside his head, sunlight spilling through a crack in the curtains.  He takes a second to smile at the ceiling because in this moment, when nothing in the whole world is bothering him, no memories are plaguing him and his words are not taunting him with their silence, he knows the world is right, just for a moment, and he wouldn’t change a thing about it even if he could.  

John stirs a short while later, when Sherlock is sitting propped up against the end of the bed with a book open in his lap, his hair falling over his eyes.  The older boy is blinking blearily before he suddenly sits bolt upright, making Sherlock jump.  “Beach!” John cries joyfully as he sets his eyes on his companion and Sherlock remembers, all of a sudden, what Lestrade promised today.  He lets out a small gasp of remembered glee and then he closes his book with a snap, sliding out of bed and racing for the door hot on John’s heels.  

“BEACH!” John hollers, careening into Lestrade’s bedroom where the man is buttoning up his shirt and looking quite unfazed by Hurricane Watson as it whirls through the door.  “You said we could go to the beach today!” John reminds him, as though the man had ever forgotten a promise made to either of the boys. 

“ _Beach_?” he repeats, just for the fun of it.  His expression is fixed into mild surprise that has John faltering for a moment and Sherlock grins a little bit because he knows Lestrade is joking, he can see it in the corners of the man’s mouth even as John sucks in an offended breath of air.

“You said-” John begins accusingly, but Lestrade chuckles and Sherlock does too, quietly.  He’s only just recently started doing it again at all and when Lestrade hears it his entire face lights up, even though it was just a quiet laugh because Sherlock is still getting used to feeling happiness in his mouth again.

“I’m just joking, John,” he assures, ruffling the boy’s hair before he has a chance to duck away and tear out of the room, grasping at Sherlock’s sleeve as he runs by to indicate that he should follow.  Sherlock does, but he falls into step beside Lestrade and glances up at him with his questions written on his face instead of on his lips.  

He’s excited, because it’s hard not to be when John has told him so many stories about how great the beach is, but he’s slightly nervous too because he can’t remember ever going to the beach before and he’s not really sure what to expect.  Thankfully, Lestrade has become something of an expert in reading the lines on Sherlock’s face and the narrowness of his eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks, the way they change and fold with different emotions and questions and words that are written in flesh instead of sound.  He understands.  Perhaps not the way John can, but Sherlock doesn’t think anyone else in the world will ever understand him the way John does, and even if they did he doesn’t think they could ever do it so flawlessly, so easily.  John has never had to  _try_  to understand Sherlock; he just  _does_.  But Lestrade understands what he means better than most, and he correctly interprets the expression being shot at him as they start down the stairs.

“You’ll have a great time,” he says reassuringly, “I promise.  I think you’ll love the rock pools best - we’ll take some buckets and your books so you know what you’re looking at, and some spades too because John loves digging holes and putting my towel over them.”  He grins down at Sherlock and winks at him, a wink that means that John doesn’t know that Lestrade knows, but of course Sherlock can be trusted to keep that secret.  He smiles with all the corners of his mouth and bites his lower lip as he peers up at the man, but the look is conspiratorial and Lestrade grasps his shoulder for a moment before they head into the kitchen.  

“Come on, come  _on_!”  John is practically vibrating with energy as he bounces on his chair, tapping an irregular beat into the wood of the table with the bottoms of his fingers.  “I want to leave  _real_  soon!”

Lestrade puts the kettle on for his morning coffee and then begins rooting around for bowls and spoons and cereal, pouring Rice Krispies into Sherlock’s bowl and Frosties into John’s before adding milk and sliding spoons at them.  “Breakfast first,” he says sternly.  “And we need to pack our things.  We’ll leave as soon as we’re ready, John, but not a minute before.”

John looks like he wants to argue that they should be ready  _now_  but then seems to decide that the quickest way of getting to the beach is to just follow Lestrade’s plan, so he shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and chews furiously.  

In the end he can’t stop himself from complaining about how long everything is taking and asking a hundred times how much longer, but John’s complaints aside they make it to the beach in good time.  The walk from the train station isn’t exactly  _short_  but with the sun warming everything to a delicious hotness that feels like when you’re snuggled into your blankets, it’s not unpleasant.  Though he talks and talks about how long the journey takes, John doesn’t once ask why they’re taking the train when Lestrade has a perfectly good car in the garage; he knows that Sherlock freezes up around cars and point blank refuses to get in them, even buses.  There was an incident at school, once, when all the students in Sherlock’s class were supposed to be going swimming, but they’d needed a bus to drive them to the leisure centre, only Sherlock hadn’t been able to get on.  He’d gone statue-still with terror and couldn’t be moved by anything until Lestrade had arrived, breathless and worried but with all the right words to calm Sherlock down.

As it is Sherlock flinches a bit when they’re walking out of the train station and a car shoots by on the nearby road but Lestrade takes his right hand and John takes his left and they both tactfully ignore how painfully hard Sherlock is holding onto them, walking in comfortable solidarity towards the beach.  They are an odd sort of family, the ex-police officer, retired after a case gone badly wrong had left him recovering for too many months in the hospital, and two boys with tragic pasts, trying their damndest to be strong despite it all, but there is no denying that that is what they are.

When they reach the sand John tugs his trainers off at once and shoves his socks inside, waiting strangely patiently as Lestrade helps Sherlock off with his.  Then he takes their shoes and puts them in the bag he’s carrying while John gestures wildly to Sherlock and races off, kicking sand up as he goes, Sherlock never more than a step behind.  

Lestrade watches them with a fond smile as John heads, predictably, straight for the sea.  The boy loves nothing more than splashing in water, be it in a paddling pool in the garden, the bath or the ocean.  Sherlock is not so keen, but it makes John happy so he makes an effort regardless, standing still and staring wide-eyed as the cold water washes past his ankles.  He gives a slight, belated gasp a few seconds later and then backs up, staggering onto the damp sand and wriggling his toes because it’s  _cold_  and John laughs and does a high kick, a sheet of water skimming the air around him.

“Come on!” he calls, and Lestrade notes with some dismay that John’s shorts are already soaked through.

“John!” he says loudly, waving an arm from where he is standing beside their bags and windbreakers.  “Come back a minute!  Sherlock!”  

Sherlock doesn’t need to be told twice, rarely has to be told  _anything_  twice, and he makes his way back up the sand to where Lestrade has found a patch of beach to set the bags down that’s marginally free of other tourists for the moment.  They spend a few moments wrestling out of Sherlock’s normal clothes, making sure his swimming shorts are laced tightly enough that they won’t go flying, and smothering every inch of exposed, pale skin in sticky sun cream.  By the time Lestrade’s tugged Sherlock’s spare t-shirt over his head to protect his shoulders from the glare, John has started meandering his way up the beach towards them, looking oddly sheepish.  

The dark haired boy stands beside the bags, watching as John comes to a stop in front of Lestrade, his feet and legs covered with sand where it’s stuck to the wet skin.  John shoots Lestrade a look that Sherlock can’t interpret and he rolls his shoulders, oddly quiet.

“Hey Sherlock, think you can spread out the towels?” Lestrade asks, turning to him with a grin.  Sherlock nods immediately, pulling the zippers open and tugging towels free, shaking them out and intricately spreading each one so every corner is pulled taut and laid flat.  By the time he steps back to look at his handiwork John is also sun-creamed and down to his swimming shorts and an old t-shirt, grinning once again.  

He opens his mouth and lets out a wordless battle cry before turning on his heel to charge back to the water, skipping around children building sandcastles and leaping right over one woman sunbathing on her front.  Sherlock laughs a little as she rolls over in confusion and then he sets off after John, carefully avoiding everyone by circling around them and reaching the lapping edge of the water a little after John has dived headfirst into the spray and then risen, shrieking.

“IT’S COLD!” he yells up at the sky, but he’s laughing and the sound makes Sherlock so,  _so_  happy and he can’t explain why but he wades towards John because it’s the most natural thing in the world.  John spins violently, skimming his hands across the water so Sherlock has to throw his arms up to try and stop his face from getting too wet but it’s  _fun_  even though it is a little cold and he doesn’t really like the way the seaweed is stroking at his legs.  A beach ball bounces off the back of his head and someone yells, ‘ _Sorry_!’ and John is dripping at his side, plucking the ball from the water and throwing it back with a, “ONE NIL TO US!”

It becomes a game almost instantly and John’s liveliness soon convinces Sherlock that jumping about in the waves isn’t  _all_  bad and the other two boys laugh just as loudly as John does and they are laughing so much they don’t even  _realise_  that Sherlock doesn’t talk.  And the best part - the very, very best part - is that Sherlock finds  _himself_  laughing shrilly as he dives for the ball and  _he’s not even trying_ , it’s just  _happening_ , spilling out of him because happiness is bubbling inside his belly and there’s so  _much_  of it it pours past his lips.  

John is practically glowing when he realises, turning to grin at Sherlock and the moment’s distraction costs them a point because the ball hits him right in the face and that makes Sherlock laugh even harder.  John makes a bit of a game of it, then, scrambling to catch it and then tripping about in the shallows because making Sherlock laugh is probably the best feeling in the world and he doesn’t want it to ever stop.  

It does, because everything ends eventually, but that doesn’t make everything bad.  They return to their towels and drink orange squash slightly warmed from the sun and Lestrade helps them build a sandcastle that John accidentally steps on when he leaps to try and catch someone else’s frisbee, and when Lestrade goes to the little hut at the edge of the beach to buy ice creams John hastily digs a hole beneath his towel, pressing his fingers to his lips when he looks back up at Sherlock.  

Sherlock grins and ducks his head, pursing his lips as John tosses the towel over the hole just as Lestrade steps up to them, eyes twinkling, ice cream cones in hand.  He holds one out to John and gives a second to Sherlock and then he steps over his towel and drops onto it, letting his arms flail wildly as he sinks a foot below ground level and John rolls around laughing hysterically.  “Hey!” Lestrade calls out from where he’s sunk, his knees bent awkwardly, body dipped into the hole with his towel bunched around him, ice cream miraculously unharmed.  

Sherlock is shaking with laughter himself - both boys are utterly helpless to hysterics as Lestrade makes a show of struggling out of the hole he’s found himself in and when Sherlock flops back onto his towel to breathe slowly and calm his aching stomach, he smiles at nothing.  His eyes are closed but he can feel the sunlight playing across them, bright and warm, and he can hear Lestrade’s  _oof_ ’s as he struggles away from the hole, and John’s mad giggling, and Sherlock wishes he could take hold of a moment, stretch it like string between his fingers to make it last forever.

Afternoon sneaks up on them; the sun slides slowly across the sky and the breeze is cooler now.  The air is quieter as people drift away, heading for fish and chips, beach-front shopping and home.  Lestrade, Sherlock and John are one of the families who stick around for longer, building more sandcastles and poking around in rock pools while Sherlock balances a bucket and a net with one hand, a heavy book in the other, flipping through the pages with John’s help to figure out exactly which species of crab they’re looking at.  

Lestrade gathers their things together, and John insists on one last foray into the sea.  Sherlock follows without hesitation and Lestrade tells them they have ten minutes while he folds everything up and forces the zippers closed.  

John has always been good at making every minute matter; ten of them can be an eternity.  “SHARKS ARE ATTACKING!” be bellows furiously, splashing around and bobbing with his head just above the water.  “TEN OF ‘EM!  HELP ME SHERLOCK!”  He’s laughing, which ruins the image a little, but Sherlock jumps towards him regardless and grips cold hands, hauling John towards him as the other kicks and pretends to drown, throwing himself back and forth with loud yells and arms that flail enough to break Sherlock’s grip.  

He drops beneath the surface so fast his shirt, heavy with water, stays behind and sinks to the bottom without him.  John breaks out of the water with a battle cry, fists raised, splashing and kicking as he fights off ‘sharks’, Sherlock doing his best to aid him with hunks of seaweed and a shell he stood on a moment ago.  

“GET THEM!” John directs, punching into the water and sending a rain of it up into his face, coughing as he laughs, whirling as Sherlock points behind him and jumps forwards.  Together, they vanquish their last foe (“A Great White, no doubt about it,” John says knowledgeably) and John grabs Sherlock’s fist and wrenches it high in the air as he pulls the other boy along in a victory dance hindered only slightly by the waist-deep water.  

“Boys!”  Lestrade is waving from the sand and Sherlock is fairly certain they’ve been more than ten minutes but he can’t bring himself to worry about it; he had fun, and he knows Lestrade won’t be mad.  John makes a face, because leaving is always the worst part about going to the beach, and moves towards the water’s edge.

Both boys freeze at once, John three strides ahead of Sherlock.  They have, technically, frozen for the same reason.

“Where’s my shirt?” John demands hurriedly, breathless, and he turns fast enough that Sherlock flinches a bit.  John stares at him with wide eyes.  “Where’s my  _shirt_?”

But it doesn’t matter; his shirt is gone, and Sherlock has seen.  John has taken great, great pains to avoid this.  He gets changed in the bathroom at home and at school; he wears a shirt swimming, even just in the garden, but somehow his shirt is  _gone_  and he  _knows_  it shouldn’t matter, because Sherlock is Sherlock and he’s not going to say anything.  He’s not going to ask questions that make him hurt with answers he doesn’t want to speak of; he’s  _Sherlock_  and he’s John’s  _friend_  and he can  _trust_  him.  But it still hurts because John, for all he knows that Sherlock is a friend, the kind of friend who will understand better than most, didn’t ever want him to know.

Sherlock is young - he’s two whole years younger than John - and he had a good Daddy.  John  _didn’t_  and he doesn’t want to poison Sherlock with knowing what some Daddys do, because Sherlock doesn’t deserve that.  And John...John  _hates_  what happened, what his Daddy did, what he remembers and the things he doesn’t remember quite right.  He doesn’t want to talk about it to a doctor and he doesn’t want to talk about it with Greg.  He doesn’t want people to  _know_  what happened, that he, John, was so pathetic.  So useless.  So  _nothing_.  He’s supposed to be big and strong, like his Mummy told him he was, and he  _wasn’t_  because Daddy was bigger and stronger.  But John  _can_  be big and strong for Sherlock, only big and strong men  _don’t_  have scars down their backs that all he can remember of is  _hurtshurtshurts please STOP_ -

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until Sherlock steps close - very close.  His blue eyes are wide but he’s not looking at John like he’s disgusted, or horrified, or ashamed of him.  He just looks...sad.  And he doesn’t say a word, because he’s Sherlock, when he steps just around John and places fingers gently against old, pale scar tissue.  Two uneven lines drawn from his shoulder blades to his hips, one jagged, the other almost straight.  The straight one is longer, but the jagged one is slightly more red, stands out a little more.  

John closes his eyes and bites his lips as nervousness tugs at his insides when Sherlock presses his fingers gently against the tops of both of them, just shy of John’s shoulders.  He takes them away after a few seconds and John turns around but he can’t look at him.  He’s staring at the water swaying around his knees.  He doesn’t say anything.

Sherlock watches him and wishes he could say something, but he can’t.  So he doesn’t say anything as he reaches down for the hem of his own shirt, soaking wet and slightly too small for John, but he pulls it off regardless.  It’s difficult, because the material clings to him, but he gets it over his head and he holds it out to John.

Still, neither of them say anything.  

John takes Sherlock’s t-shirt, but he doesn’t put it on.  He wipes his eyes and then grabs Sherlock, hugs him for the very first time.  They are starting to get cold; the sun is low in the sky now, and arms and chests are cool and damp but neither of them care.  Sherlock closes his eyes and puts his hands over the scars on John’s back and if he could say anything, he’d tell John;  _this is where your wings would be._

****  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I owe all of you a very big apology for taking so much time with this update; I can’t really say what happened as I don’t have any one thing to pinpoint. I guess my life just got busy, and a lot of things changed in a short amount of time, but I’m still sorry for taking so long with this, especially as this chapter isn’t a huge one and doesn’t have anything really plot-vital in it. Still, it is an update, so I’m hoping anyone who’s still reading this is okay with that.
> 
> Also, I just want to say that this chapter might seem sort of like an ending? But it’s not - there are probably going to be three more chapters after this one, including an epilogue, and they should be updated fairly soon - certainly not with a wait like this one. 
> 
> Thank you so much to anyone who is still reading this fic, you have no idea how much your comments help me through the really crappy days and when I’m feeling down and out on the world.

  
  **June 15th; Sometime After Bedtime**

* * *

 

Things change, marginally, after the beach.  John grows an inch and Sherlock doesn’t.  Lestrade still smiles.  Sherlock still does not speak.  The days grow warmer.  School is still horrible, the children don’t speak to Sherlock at all now.  But John - John speaks a lot more.  Late at night, when they are huddled beneath blankets that are all the protection from the world two boys can give themselves, John opens his mouth and words come pouring out like they’d been poised there all along.

John knows, now - knows for sure - that Sherlock is not going to run away from him when he hears what’s inside John’s head, what’s wrapped up in the days that led to him arriving on Greg’s doorstep.  He finds it hard, sometimes, to form words for the memories and the feelings that rush against his mind but Sherlock is patient and he listens, blue eyes fixed on John with an unflinching attention, and that helps.  It really does.

The older boy cannot stand to look at Sherlock sometimes when he speaks; like the first time.  He lies against the carpet and stares up at the blankets overhead and folds his fingers into his pyjama trousers and swallows hard again and again and again to try and force the words to come.  But even though he’s not looking at Sherlock, John knows he’s listening, simply because John  _needs_  him to.  

So he tells Sherlock about the first time he remembers his dad hitting him.  Tells him about the smell he remembers, thick and heavy in the air, the smell that still chokes him to this day when he walks past someone who has been drinking.   _Alcohol_.  John knows what it is.  He knows what it smells like.  He knows what it looks like when it spills against kitchen tiles, and he knows how the blunt punch feels right after.  He knows what it looks like when it poisons his father’s eyes, and he knows what it looks like when it decorates his mother’s face with dark bruises and she is  _still so beautiful_.    

He knows how it feels in the air when he comes home from school.  Like any movement could snap the fragile atmosphere of the world; any word wrongly spoken, any step too far in the wrong direction.  Even just a look the wrong way at the wrong time, his heart thumping slippery wet against his ribs in a  _thudthudthudthud_  because he’s just  _waiting_ , always waiting, for the world to break apart and shower him in bruises all over again.  He knows how it feels when his daddy starts yelling and it’s like everything inside him shrinks down and down and down until there is nothing left but  _please don’t Daddy please it’s me, it’s Johnny PLEASE DON’T DADDY PLEASE YOU’RE HURTING ME-_

And he knows how it feels when his mummy shouts out.  When she screams louder even than him, when her arms spread wide and her eyes are so, so scared but she’s there and she’s yelling, and Daddy’s yelling and the whole  _world_  is yelling, out there and inside his head - screaming and shouting and crying and hurting and  _it never stops_.  

Days and days of it.  John has them mapped out inside his head and he remembers them sometimes when he’s sleeping or when he accidentally lets his focus slip.  He used to remember a lot more; he’s better now.  He’s getting better.  He thinks he has Sherlock to thank for that.  He never has nightmares when he’s curled up in sheets that smell of familiar bubble bath and he can see blue hems of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms when he opens his eyes.  He never lets his attention slip away to  _bad things_  when Sherlock is there, because his attention is wholly focused on the other boy instead.

John tells Sherlock about bottles smashing, about a crack in the air and something  _burning his back it’s burning oh God please Mummy, Daddy someone please anyone help me it hurts it hurts_.  He tells Sherlock about the way his Daddy yelled at him, right in his face, so close John could have counted the eyelashes adorning his father’s eyes if he’d been brave enough to open his own.  He tells Sherlock that he still gets scared when boys fight at school.  He still flinches when someone yells with the taste of anger in their mouths.  He still feels sick when he smells alcohol or when he hears a bottle smashing or when the boys at school call him  _Johnny_ , like his daddy did.  

And Sherlock says nothing.  Sherlock listens and aches and wishes he could take all the words out of John’s mouth so he’d never have to feel them on his lips.  He wishes he could reach right inside John’s head and pull the words out of there, too, so John doesn’t have to remember them.  He wishes he was big and tall like Lestrade, so he could go back in time and find John, pick him up and take him away from his daddy and tell him he loves him because John is  _perfect_  and he doesn’t deserve to be hurt.  

“Mummy tried to stop him,” John whispers, pressing his fingers together and then pulling them apart, again and again just for something to do, something to watch and think about as the words spill out.  “She really did.  She was a good mum.  She was...”  He swallows.  “She was the  _best_.  She gave me ice cream when...after.  When Daddy was out.  She tucked my blankets up around my ears.  She read me stories and walked me to school.  She helped me with reading.  Showed me...”  John presses his fingers to his mouth instead, curling over because his chest is aching so fiercely he’s scared he’s going to break apart right here in their sanctuary.  “She taught me how to tie my shoelaces,” he manages to say, squeezing his eyes closed and drawing in a ragged breath.  “She said I was her big strong man.  But I  _wasn’t_.  I wasn’t, Sherlock, I wasn’t, I - I couldn’t, didn’t.  He was mad, Daddy was so so mad, he was angry and yelling and I  _didn’t stop him_  and I was  _meant_  to because  _I_  was Mummy’s big strong man and and and-”

John’s dizzy, clutching desperately at something he doesn’t realise is Sherlock’s wrist, closing his eyes and sucking in deep, sharp breaths that hurt as they whistle past his lips and down his throat and the world is spinning crazily inside his head, rolling around like a ball in a bowl and he’s swimming, flying, falling-

But he’s not falling.  Sherlock has his arms wrapped around John, one circling his neck and the other grasping at his back, wishing, wishing,  _wishing_  he could say something, anything - say all the words John needs to hear but he  _can’t_ , he  _still_  can’t, even though John needs him.  But it’s okay; it’s okay because Sherlock doesn’t need to speak as long as he’s  _there_ ; John takes comfort from his presence, from those eyes that look at him with  _I care_  written in blue and a mouth set too serious for a six year old.  He takes comfort in knowing that Sherlock listens and understands and cares; from the fact that if Sherlock could say something, he would.  And John knows, somehow, that whatever Sherlock said, it would be all the right things.

Because they are two imperfect boys, and they didn’t mean to be that way.  It just happened.  And now here they are, clinging together because that’s all they’ve got left, and one of them has words that have scarred his insides for so long spilling past his lips, and the other can say nothing at all.  And that is just fine, because it works.  Because love doesn’t  _need_  words; it is so, so much more than that.  And these two boys, they are brothers, and their love is not written with words or spoken with tongues.  It simply  _is_.  That is how they understand it, how they give it and take it.

And it’s perfect.  

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**June 28th, 4:19pm**

* * *

 

John wants a bike.  He announces it loudly as he bounds through the door one day, declares it with conviction and longing and staring straight at Greg because he’s the one with the wallet.  He drags both Greg and Sherlock past the window in town to view the bike he would like, and even Sherlock, who has absolutely no interest in bicycles, can see that it is lovely.

It’s shiny and red with deep black tyres and a seat with a back, streamers dangling off the handles and a bell attached to the front.  John dings it quietly when they go inside to look at it, joy lighting up his face as the sound spills into the air and when he turns away to stare imploring at Greg, Sherlock dings it too.  He likes the sound; it’s like waking up in the morning and seeing John grin, and it’s like bursting out into the garden hard on John’s heels, racing for the swing, and it’s like Greg lifting him high and swinging him round and round so the world swirls in a blur of colour that Sherlock doesn’t need to understand.  

 _Happiness_ , he decides.  That bell sounds like happiness.  It warms him deep in his bones and pulls a smile onto his lips, even though it’s just a bell.  

John wants to sit on the bike and try it out, but Greg leads them from the shop and the words, ‘ _it’s too expensive, John_ ’ accompany them through the door and when Sherlock turns around he sees that John has frozen on the threshold and he looks for all the world like he is going to burst into tears.  He doesn’t, but he’s silent all the way home and he disappears into his bedroom for the rest of the afternoon.  

When he comes out for dinner, he’s clutching several sheets of paper marked with blue colouring pencil (Sherlock accidentally pressed too hard with the black one and they don’t have a pencil sharpener that works), numbers trailing down the pages where John has calculated costs and chores and time and has concluded that with a lot of helping out in the house and the garden, he should be able to afford the bike in...seventeen years.  

Which is just plain stupid, really, because in seventeen years he’ll be rich enough to buy a thousand shiny red bikes and he wants this one  _now_.  Still, he presents his findings to Greg over pork chops and Greg hums at them and deliberates and says that maybe they can think about trying to get it for John’s birthday, which is in just over a month, and that’s slightly more digestible than seventeen years, but  _still_.  

John draws pictures of the bike at his appointment with his doctor instead of talking with her like he usually does, and he tells her that when he gets his bike he’ll be the fastest boy in town.  He tells Sherlock later that night that if they sit on it just right, he’s sure they will both fit and then they can ride around anywhere.  “We could even go to the  _beach_ ,” he says enthusiastically, miles be damned because he’s eight and it sometimes feels like the whole world is there for him to gather up in both hands and have all to himself.  He wouldn’t keep it for himself, though; John would share it with Sherlock, and he’d give Greg some bits of it, and Molly too because she bakes the most amazing cookies and she tells the best stories from when she was little and Greg looked after her, too.

They go and look at the bike a lot; Sherlock eventually gets bored of looking at it but John is as enthralled as he was the first time, every time.  He presses his nose against the window, breath fogging against the glass, fingertips leaving tiny smudges when he pulls his hands away.  The old man who owns the shop lets John sit on it whenever there’s nobody else to serve, and Sherlock dings the bell because he still loves the sound.  They are promised that the bike will not be sold before the day John turns nine, but even so John insists they go and check on it most days.  Because it is (technically) on the way home from school, Greg lets him; they all three of them troop through town to ogle at the bike and then visit the library, which is Sherlock’s favourite part of the day.  

There’s a children’s section inside where John sits in the wooden train, cramming almost too-long legs into it and setting a pile of books beside him but Sherlock doesn’t like the story books.  They have cartoon pictures that look tacky and fake, smiling Mummies and laughing Daddies, older brothers who are still there and simple words that cannot ease the silence inside Sherlock’s mouth.  

Lestrade brings him encyclopedias and textbooks with strings of letters that don’t always make sense, but they make his mind ache in a way he’s missed since Mycroft has been gone.  There are diagrams of skeletons and Sherlock tries to remember the names of the bones in his hand, and he reads about some of the reptiles native to Australia, testing himself on them as he lies on the carpet, the sounds of the other children fading far into the background.  

The world, Sherlock understands, is made entirely of facts and feelings.  The feelings are difficult, because they sometimes hurt or are uncomfortable, and he doesn’t always know what to do when his chest suddenly folds into a feeling he doesn’t have a name for, or when his mouth makes laughter and he can’t pinpoint  _why_.  The facts are not controllable either, but if he learns them then he will always know what to do with them, and they are always there, never changing.  Sherlock likes that about them; he knows that this bit of his finger is called a  _phalange_.  It will always be called that, even when he grows old and has long forgotten sitting in this library trying to remember it - it won’t change, won’t lose its name, won’t be snatched away and erased from all the books in the world.  Sometimes he thinks about it as he’s falling asleep, thinks about how the world is not a very dependable place until you grab hold of the facts and stand on them when you walk.  They won’t break beneath his feet.  

At first, John was a feeling.  He was a blur of colour and sound and energy that buzzed inside Sherlock’s silence and made it feel like home.  He was a whirlwind and a presence like Sherlock had never experienced before, an entity all of his own and a person who could never be repeated, replicated or changed.  He was  _John_ , and somehow, that made him feel more like  _Sherlock_ , a boy in his very own right, a person of his own inside a whole world of them, instead of just a blank space where silence had settled like dust on his shoulders.

Slowly, though, John became a fact as well.  He was still feelings, a jumble of them all tangled together like shoelaces, but he was  _there_  and he was sure as the bones in Sherlock’s hands, sure as the morning, sure as winter, and John did not break, did not disappear, was not erased or forgotten.  He was carved in stone, written into the stars, shaped into the sun.  He isn’t going anywhere.

Sometimes, Sherlock wakes up too suddenly and finds himself sliding out of bed, padding across the landing to John’s bedroom and pushing open the door just to make sure the other boy is still there.  Sometimes Sherlock stops in the middle of what he’s doing and turns around to take in this friend of his, to remember that he is here and he is here to stay.  Sometimes he can’t quite believe it, and always he wishes he could tell John how much it means, how big of a feeling it is, that he isn’t leaving.  That he’s allowed himself to become a fact inside Sherlock’s world of ever-changing feelings without names or words with which to describe them, without indicators to tell the doctor that  _it hurts here_  when he touches his fingers to his chest.  Because of course, he cannot point to pain that is inside his body, so far inside Sherlock’s not sure which bones it is lying across, and he could never seem to open his mouth enough to let the right words out.  

But there is a boy in the world and Sherlock was lucky enough to land right on his doorstep, and that boy has always known without needing the words that sometimes things hurt, and nobody can explain why.  That sometimes there are memories stuck inside your head that you don’t want to be there, but you don’t want to let them go, either.  That sometimes Sherlock needs John and he can’t tell him why.  Because John needs Sherlock too, and he has from the start - from before the start, from the first time his Daddy’s hand stung harsh and unexpected across his cheek and John didn’t know  _why_.  

He still doesn’t know why - and can’t quite bring himself to ask anyone but this silent boy - but he does know that the wrongness of those memories feels a little less sharp when his shoulder bumps against Sherlock and he tries to read over his shoulder, the two of them somehow alone while surrounded by everyone else in the library.  John doesn’t really find the things Sherlock reads interesting, but he finds it interesting that Sherlock finds them interesting, and that’s enough that they can sit together in silence and read about the worldwide distribution of sea turtles.

Sherlock can’t explain to John about facts and feelings and the way the world is threaded through with them, but if he could, John would probably smile, because it’s so  _Sherlock_.  He’d smile, and then he’d go quiet as he thought about it, and in the end he would probably conclude that Sherlock is a fact just as much as he is a feeling.  If he could write a dictionary, he would put the two words together and to define them he would just write  _brothers_.       

 


	12. Chapter 12

**August 7th, 6:39am**

* * *

John wakes up suddenly on the morning of his birthday, jerked into wakefulness as though he’d had an alarm set that only he could hear.  It’s early, but the heavy air promises that the day is going to be another hot one; they’ve had a string of them for the past week and Sherlock and John have both made the absolute most of the summer holiday in the little paddling pool outside.  John doesn’t care about that today, though, because today he’s _nine_ and that’s a whole lot bigger than eight.  He’d reminded Greg a lot about the bike, terrified that the man would forget (even though John _knows_ , really, that he won’t) but he hasn’t seen even a hint of the red frame or the tassels on the handlebars.    He’s trying not to be worried, not yet, and instead of thinking about it (and instead of darting downstairs to see if the bike is there, which he would very much like to do), he sits up and reaches out to rub at Sherlock’s curls.

“Sherlock!” he whispers hoarsely, and that’s all it takes for those blue eyes to flash wide open, white teeth suddenly exposed in a smile.  The dark haired boy is alert almost instantly and he sits up with a full-on grin that makes John want to just leap out of bed and start shrieking with glee.  There’s something about seeing Sherlock’s lips curled like that, in a real, proper smile, that John knows he’ll never grow tired of.  

He returns the grin, his own complete with gaps where his old teeth had fallen out, and slivers and snatches of big-kid teeth that are all still coming through.  Sherlock can’t tell him _happy birthday_ , of course, but he holds up nine fingers and John nods happily.  “Yep, nine today!”  For a moment the words seem to leave him breathless and John remembers another time, another birthday, when his mum would crouch beside him while he was still in bed and sing to him, small and quiet so Daddy wouldn’t wake up too soon, and she’d bring him hot chocolate and John would curl up in her lap.

It takes Sherlock pressing crumpled paper into his hands for John to take a deep breath and focus on now, today; Sherlock.  Greg.  Molly.  These are his family now, and he misses his old one desperately, painfully, but he loves this one, too.  He’s realising, slowly, that he can have both.  That loving this family doesn’t mean he has to forget his mum or his dad or the sister he doesn’t remember properly, but sometimes it just hits him how much it _hurts_ that they’re gone.

His fingers shake just a little as he opens the folds on the paper and John stifles a choke as he looks down and realises what it is he’s holding.  Sherlock has written him a letter.  These are words, real words, from Sherlock; the first they’ve exchanged in their lives.

  _John_

_Happy birthday.  You are 9.  I am happy you are here with me._

_Love_

_Sherlock_

John reads it once, twice, a third time.  He drinks the words in, realises what it must have taken for Sherlock to painstakingly select them, figure out how to arrange and spell them by himself because he cannot ask Lestrade to help him, cannot tell Lestrade what he wants to say.  For an instant, it is Sherlock with the words and John left in silence because he doesn’t know what to say.

Sherlock’s watching him nervously, but there’s a hint of pride in his mouth, a smile ready to break over his lips at a moment’s notice.  He has his left hand wound into Tagger’s tag, his thumb rubbing idle circles into the worn fabric as he waits.  John coughs deeply, tries to ignore the way his chin is wobbling as he launches himself at Sherlock and hugs him fiercely.  

They cling together for a long moment as John discreetly tries to rub his tears away on Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock buries his head into the other boy’s neck and is almost overwhelmed with pride and happiness.  The moment is ended swiftly as the two overbalance and crash sideways, landing in a tangled sprawl on the floor, Tagger caught somewhere in the mix.  They are still prying themselves apart, John carefully making sure the letter is okay and folding it back up the way it had been when he’d received it, when Greg comes rushing in, panicked by the noise.

He looks between the two and shakes his head a little, stretching widely and giving a yawn.  “Come on then, boys,” he says once he’s done, stepping out of the doorway and jerking his head at the stairs.  “Might as well get started on breakfast.”

“Pancakes!” John declares at once, because it is his birthday and therefore his choice.  Sherlock nods his agreement.  They never eat pancakes for breakfast; they’re a treat, Greg says, not a healthy start to the day, but today is the one day he can’t say no.

“Pancakes with broccoli,” Greg negotiates with a quick grin.  “You can’t have all that sugar for _breakfast_ , John!”

“Yes we _can_!” John insists, darting ahead and taking the stairs two at a time until he bursts into the kitchen, looking around excited and expectant.  It’s empty of his bicycle.  There’s a wrapped box sitting on the table and John takes the moment before Greg reaches him to let the anguish wash across his face, disappointment like a weighted thing pulling his shoulders down.  He thinks he might cry, until he remembers that he’s nine now and nine year olds are too big for that.

“Happy birthday John!” Grey says loudly, stepping past John into the kitchen and picking up the box, holding it out with a grin John can’t bring himself to return.  Sherlock slips in past John, too, but pauses when he notices the look on John’s face, reaching back to grab hold of the other’s sleeve.  

“I...” John mumbles quietly, voice straining to get past the lump in his throat.  “I just...”  The kitchen is blurring over with disappointment and John is furious with himself but he can’t help it; he’d wanted that bicycle so badly, and he’d really thought that maybe, just maybe, it would happen.  “Thanks, Greg,” he manages to whisper, moving forwards as Greg puts the box down on the table to be unwrapped, apparently not noticing John’s almost-tears.

Sherlock leads the way to the table, pressing his fingers interestedly against the neat wrapping before he glances up at John with an encouraging sort of smile.  It helps, a little, and John sniffs with a stern word to himself to stop being a baby.  He moves towards the table and takes his own seat, tugging the box towards him as Greg gets started whisking pancake ingredients together, watching surreptitiously.

The wrapping is pulled apart carefully, until John sees the picture on the box, and then he rips it open and tosses the separate pieces to the floor with a gasp.  He stares around, wild eyed, to look at Greg, hardly daring to hope that _maybe_ , just maybe...

Greg gives a slight nod and a gently pointed look towards the closed living room door and John jumps off his chair so fast he stumbles.  Sherlock moves the rest of the wrapping paper aside to see that what John’s opened is a brand new bicycle helmet, which must mean-

“Greg!” John shrieks from the other room.  “ _Sherlock_!  Come look!  Thank you thank you thank you!”  

Lestrade abandons the ingredients at once, grabbing a disposable camera he’d had at the ready before he races into the living room to snap a photo of John as he’s standing admiring the bright red bicycle in the middle of the room.  Sherlock appears at his elbow and can’t stop the slightly awed intake of breath that hisses through his teeth; somehow, in their very own living room, the bike seems even better than it had ever looked in the shop.

John hops up onto the seat, accompanied by another flash of the camera, and he lets out a high-pitched sort of muted scream of excitement that makes Sherlock giggle a little.  “Come on, Sherlock!” John encourages, and Sherlock walks towards him and allows himself to be helped onto the back of the thing.  If John stands up instead of sitting, holding the bike steady, Sherlock can sit on the seat and hold onto John’s pajamas to keep from falling off.

Lestrade takes another photo, grinning with unabashed pride and delight.  “Happy birthday, John.”

“Thank you so much!” John breathes in a rush of gratitude, not even looking at Greg but staring at the bicycle beneath him.  “Can we go test it out?  Now?”

“In the garden, sure - breakfast’ll be in ten.”

Sherlock clambers off and follows behind John as he slowly and carefully wheels the best present in the whole world out through the kitchen.  On the way through, Sherlock grabs the helmet box and Lestrade quickly pops it open for him to take to John, as well as the elbow and knee pads that came with it.  

It takes most of their allotted ten minutes to kit John up, Sherlock strapping the pads in place and both of them fumbling with the helmet strap until Greg helps, shortening it so it sits snugly against John’s chin and rapping his knuckles on the top with a rueful grin.  “Feel right?”

“Yup!”

“Off you go, then.”  Greg steps back and Sherlock moves to wait beside him as they watch John kick himself off a little before he puts his feet on the pedals and cycles furiously, propelling himself the entire length of the garden in just a few seconds.  He’s back again a moment later, laughing so loudly he must’ve woken up half the neighbourhood, but none of them care.  

“This is the best birthday _ever_!” John declares, red-faced and bright-eyed, spilling delight and happiness that Sherlock thinks he could scoop up off the ground if he tried hard enough.  

Greg laughs at him and claps him on the shoulder.  “Well, the best birthday ever’s going to have to be paused for a few minutes so you boys can eat breakfast,” he says, turning back to the kitchen as John reluctantly dismounts and props his bicycle against the wall of the house, trailing his fingers over it as he walks past it to go back inside.  

He eats breakfast with his helmet still on, rushing it down so fast he feels sick, and he darts back out again as soon as his plate is clear to get back on his bike.  Sherlock changes seats so he can watch John through the window, not even halfway through his own pancakes, and Lestrade flops down beside him with his own plate.  

The two sit in comfortable silence as they eat, watching John with near identical expressions, and when Sherlock is done he slides off of his stool to head back out into the garden.  He spends hours out there with John while Lestrade readies the house for the small party they’re having for John’s friends from school, running alongside the bicycle, trying to keep up.  After a while John slips off and prompts Sherlock to hop on, guiding him up and down the lawn.  It’s a little too big and Sherlock’s never learned how to ride a bike, but with John holding him up they manage a few laps before they trade places.

John’s friends start to arrive, bearing gifts and grins and chasing out into the garden to admire the bike while Lestrade makes teas for the parents who don’t want to leave right away.  It’s Jim who has the idea.

“Why don’t you take it _outside_ , John?” he asks, sidling up to him.  His mum has slicked his hair for the party but it’s fallen out of the tidy style a little, gelled tufts messed from running with the others.  

“We are outside,” John replies, glancing around before he shoots Jim a look that comes across as a little concerned. 

“No,” Jim says, waving a hand.  “I mean _outside_ \- not just in your garden.  There’s loads of places around here you could ride a bike.”

Sherlock’s stomach drops at the thought and he reaches out for John’s sleeve, but the older boy doesn’t seem to notice.  He’s looking at Jim, glancing between him and the house where Lestrade is in the kitchen with the other parents.  “We’re not supposed to go out of the garden,” he says slowly, uncertainly, and Sherlock knows that John is already sold.  He’s never been too caught up in following rules and it’s clear that he’s desperate to try his bike somewhere he can build up proper speed.  Lestrade said they could go to the park tomorrow, or maybe later depending on when the party finished, but John’s impatience is getting the better of him.  “Greg would see us leave,” he says, biting his lip, and Jim smiles.  

“Nah,” he says confidently.  “There’s loads of us out here, he won’t notice you’re gone, as long as you don’t take too long.  I’ll stay here and make sure he doesn’t find out.”

John deliberates a moment longer before he grins.  “Okay, thanks!”  He turns to Sherlock and jerks his head.  “C’mon, Sherlock,” he says, quietly as though Lestrade can hear him from all the way inside.  Sherlock doesn’t want to go - he feels sick at the thought of leaving the safety of the garden - but he’s not going to let John go alone.  Swallowing, he falls into step beside him as John wheels his bicycle to the gate, opening it with expert hands and slipping through.  Sherlock follows with two quick steps and John closes it behind him.  “Quickly!”

He hops back on his bike, double-checks that his helmet is on right, and begins pedaling.  Sherlock jogs to keep up, and starts to run as John goes faster, down the path and around the corner, past the trees and houses that look just like theirs.  He’s whooping at the top of his lungs, standing confidently on his pedals as he starts to fly, Sherlock slowly falling behind.  His breaths are wheezes but he still gives chase, until he hears a noise that makes him stop so hard he trips over his own feet, tumbling painfully into concrete.

He lets out a slight gasp that goes unheard by John, already yards and yards ahead and caught up in the moment.  Sherlock gets to his bloodied knees, pushing his hands up into his hair before he pushes them against his ears and closes his eyes.  He can hear cars, the low rumble of their engines and the whoosh of wind as they speed by.  He can hear them, feel them, he can see them, looming up out of nowhere and he can hear his life splinter around him with a screech of metal and screaming and brakes and an indicator clicking it’s still clicking it _won’t stop clicking_.

He’s crying but he can’t hear the tears, can’t feel them as they trail down his cheeks - he doesn’t feel the sting in his knees or the sun on his back.  It’s cold.  It’s snowing.  There’s a cake, still warm sponge - it was a dinosaur cake, because those were his favourite.  It’s _his_ birthday.  He’s six.  He asked for a telescope so he could watch the stars smile at him.  Cold ice is biting into his skin, snow under his hands and head, glass against his cheek.  _Mummy_.  She can’t see him, even though her eyes are open.  She’s not there.  He’s alone now.  He’ll be alone forever.  He cries until the sirens drown him out.

Sherlock is still crying when he remembers how to open his eyes, his breathing erratic, chest pulling painfully against the air.  He’s still on his knees and they hurt; it’s not snowing.  The sun is shining, John is somewhere.  _John_.  Sherlock swallows hard and gets to his feet, shaking desperately.  He wants his mum.  His dad.  He wants Lestrade to swoop down and gather him up and take him home.  He wants John to be able to hear him when he says, _This is a bad idea_.  But all he has is him, and Sherlock tells himself that that’s enough.

He starts running again, pounding footsteps on shaky legs almost drowning out the sound of car engines as they scream past.  He’s running alongside the road - he can see John up ahead, he can hear himself screaming all those months ago, he can feel Mycroft’s warm blood on his hands and he’s crying, crying, crying and running and sobbing so hard he thinks his heart might come out his throat.

_John.  John.  John_.  His name is every footstep that grounds Sherlock in the present, in the sunlight, in the silence.  _John._

He’s closer now, still speeding on his bike but slowing, laughing loudly in a way that echoes inside Sherlock’s head, as though he’s too late and the sound was left behind for him to gather up.  John turns as he sees Sherlock from the corner of his eye, not stopping.  He lifts one hand to wave and he’s not stopping.  “Sherlock!” he calls out and he’s not stopping.  

Sherlock can’t breath; he can see cars shooting past on the road in front of John but John isn’t looking, he’s looking at him and _he’s not stopping_.  

The wheel of his bicycle thuds down the curbside and John startles and there are cars and Sherlock can’t remember if it’s snowing or silent and he runs harder as John flinches and there’s something in  his mouth, he wants to scream but the silence is clinging to him until there’s a screech of brakes and a bang like an explosion and a scream that slices through the whole world and Sherlock opens his mouth.

“ _JOHN_!”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It's been a long, long while, and I'm really sorry for that. This fic really got away from me, and this chapter isn't quite how I want it to be, but I'm not sure how else to go on so I'm posting it anyway and hoping it's enough.
> 
> I want to say a massive thank you to everyone who's ever taken the time to comment on this fic, to bookmark and leave kudos and in general just let me know that there are people reading it, and that I'm maybe doing something right with it. I don't think I'd ever have gotten close to this point without that, so thank you so much for the support and the kind words and the encouragement. Sometimes, that's all people really need.
> 
> If anyone has any questions or wants to know anything else for this fic beyond what's here, you can find me on tumblr at salazarsslytherin.tumblr.com and, of course, right here.
> 
> Again, I am so sorry it's been so long, but here's the end - I hope it's okay.

Sherlock is aware, vaguely, that someone is screaming. He is aware of rancid, burning engine and people shouting, doors slamming. He is aware of the concrete beneath his knees and the sound of his sobs echoing inside his skull. He can see his hands shaking uncontrollably in front of him. He can feel his heartbeat in his eyes.

He moves in a daze, scrambling across the rough grey pavement and falling limply into the road. People are calling out, footsteps keep getting louder and then fading away, and John is lying, staring up at the sky with half-lidded eyes, his legs still wrapped around his twisted red bike. Sherlock can't breathe. He is boneless, his limbs refusing to co-operate and he pitches forward, shaking so badly he knows he is going to be sick soon.

"John," he whispers hoarsely, swallowing hard and blinking away the fuzziness of the world. Sherlock drags his hand along the road and reaches for his brother's fingers, holding them tight. "John. John. John." He keeps saying it, the word coming past his lips with a compulsive need that he cannot quell. People are crouching near him - one of them tries to take his hand away and Sherlock screams, lashes out. "DON'T TOUCH HIM!"

They back away; he can hear sirens as their shrill screeching rents the air. He can hear an indicator clicking, he can feel the huge shadow of a lorry blotting out the winter sun, he can see his mother's hair as it slowly darkens with blood. He can feel snow seeping into his clothes, wetting his cheeks.

"John." Sherlock isn't even aware of the word slipping out, he simply says it, over and over again. His fingers are clenched painfully tight around the other boy's. People are muttering around them, their words like the buzzing of angry wasps, but Sherlock cannot hear what they are saying. "John," he whispers, his head rolling against the hard road as he floats, anchored by his right hand and nothing else, clinging to John as he drifts away. "John." John's name is everything; the only thing Sherlock knows, the only thing he can bring himself to remember as he wanders lazily through nothingness. And then another word occurs to him, a word that seems important, and Sherlock forces himself back inside his head. It's louder in there, too loud, but inside his head he has words, and he has a mouth to speak them.

"Please."

It is winter. It is his birthday.

"Please, John."

It's snowing. Mycroft is crumpled and broken and his seat-belt is still plugged in.

"John."

Mummy is lying in the road. Her blood smells like warm sponge cake.

"Please."

The clicking fills Sherlock's head, louder than the sirens and the engines.  _Turn left_. The arrow blinks inside the car, but Sherlock can't see it. Everything else seems broken, but the little arrow works. It continues to click, and his heart rate changes to match. He is cold. He is scared. Daddy is nowhere to be seen. His cake is yellow against the dirty snow and grey road. The icing is blue. It was going to be a nice cake. It's broken, now. Everything is broken and Sherlock is floating, floating, floating; all that's left is the  _click click click_  and the smell of warm cake, fresh from the oven.

" _Sh_ _…_ _lock_."

It is summer. The sun is bright overhead. There is a siren, screaming. People talking, shifting, their shadows convulsing over the two boys in the road. There is no cake. It is John's birthday. He is nine.

"John." With difficulty, Sherlock pulls himself back into his head once again, his fingers tightening where they had gone limp. John's fingers grip his in return, and Sherlock chokes as he retches, rolling over as his stomach empties itself of breakfast and he is crying, sobbing so hard his ribs tremble and John's eyes are opening wide as Sherlock spits warm bile onto the concrete.

" _Hurts_." John draws a raspy breath and people converge at once, asking questions, questions, questions.

" _Shut up_!" Sherlock shouts at them, breathless. They are non-people, blurry nothings that he cannot distinguish between, but they do shut up. They fall back a step and for a second Sherlock thinks it is because of him, but then he registers the sirens; they had faded away but they're close now, another engine roaring so loud Sherlock freezes and curls into John, who hisses and lets out a cry.

"My leg!" he shrieks, face crumpling with horror and pain. "My leg!  _Greg_! My leg! My leg is hurting!  _Greg_!  _Greg_! Please!" He begins crying, anguished sobs that Sherlock can feel through his hand and he shifts away, his breathing picking up again.

People in green shove through the crowd and crouch beside John. They try and pry Sherlock's hand from him, but Sherlock shakes his head fiercely and clings on. John is crying terribly now, the kind of sound that Sherlock knows he will never forget, fits and starts with short, breathless silences between.

"Let us help him, we need to help him." Someone is speaking to Sherlock, their face floating in front of him but when they try and undo his grip he surges into motion, kicking out and screeching, careful not to hit John or jolt him through his pincer grip.

"No!" Sherlock cries out. "No! No no no! Greg!  _Greg_!"

Someone else is with John, leaning over him, calming him down and checking him over. Someone takes Sherlock's hand in an unarguable grip and prises him away from John, lifting him bodily even as Sherlock fights with all of his limbs, shrieking and struggling like a cat as he is carried away, screaming for John, for Greg, for a mother long dead. He cannot see, cannot think, only knows with a terrifying certainty:  _John_  - John is every breath, every heartbeat, the only thing that matters and  _he is gone_.

"JOHN! JOHN! PLEASE, NO - PLEASE, JOHN!" His screams are buried in the shoulder of the medic whose arms he is in, his kicks slowing as he realises their ineffectiveness. Slowly, Sherlock becomes aware that the person carrying him is speaking, low and calm.

"-fine, okay? He is going to be absolutely fine, do you hear me? John is going to be okay, we are going to make him better and fix him up good as new. Can you understand that?" It's a man, his voice vibrating in his chest.

Sherlock can't think, can't see, can't feel. He is numb but for the knowledge of  _John_ , limp and exhausted and streaming tears he is barely aware of.

"John! Sherlock!"

Sherlock goes rigid when he recognises the voice and straightens, struggling away from the paramedic's arms and twisting. "Greg!  _Greg_!"

Lestrade is sprinting towards him, caught for a moment between Sherlock and the ambulance John is being loaded into. He is pale and terrified but calm, and if he is shocked that Sherlock has just called for him, he doesn't show it. There are people flocking to him, forming a barrier so that Sherlock can't see him and he struggles with greater fury until he flings himself right out of the arms that have hold of him.

He nearly buckles as he hits the ground, knees weak, but he runs forward, staggering against the crowd and using his elbows and feet to get people out of his way until he can cling to Lestrade's waist. Greg lifts him without trouble, cradling him and from here, Sherlock can feel the man's thrumming heart.

"What happened? What happened?" He keeps saying it, but Sherlock doesn't have the words any more; he sighs sadly and his head rolls on Lestrade's shoulder as the man turns and steps into the ambulance, cramming himself into the corner and adjusting Sherlock so he can hold him with one arm while the other takes John's hand and holds tight.

"John," Sherlock whispers, voice muffled against Greg's shirt.

"He's right here, Sherlock," Lestrade replies from somewhere far away. "He's going to be okay."

 

* * *

 

Sherlock does not like the hospital. The air tastes sharp on his tongue, and there is a constant hum of machinery and phones and low, stern voices. His doctor arrived a little while ago, but Sherlock refused to speak to him; he will not leave Lestrade's side, and Lestrade will not leave the chairs in the empty waiting room where they have been deposited, pending news on John's condition.

Every now and then, Lestrade will reach over and give Sherlock's hand a squeeze, or ruffle his hair, or gently shake his shoulder. It feels like solidarity, and Sherlock is grateful for it, but nothing will make him feel better. He has stopped shaking, though he still feels unsteady inside, but he cannot get the images to stop playing behind his eyelids. When he closes his eyes, he sees John hitting the bonnet of the car and he hears the metallic crunch of his shiny red bicycle, the scream wrenched from the other boy, the screech of brakes and onlookers, an indicator from months and months ago - from Before, seconds Before, that said  _turning_ _left_ _._

The sun is high, blazing summer through the windows, bright light falling in sheets across the floor, draped through the glass and rippling over radiators and hard plastic chairs made for waiting. Sherlock fidgets, caught between curling up in the uncomfortable chair or sliding to the floor to wander around. He keeps switching between the two, pacing across to the water machine to fill a plastic cup, bringing it back and setting it down beside the army of them he has already collected before he retakes his seat, starts the process over in ten minutes time.

"You sure you don't wanna speak to Dr Anderson?" Lestrade asks, voice husky.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No," he says, feeling the way the word presses against his tongue and swelling inside with something that feels out of place in this dire hospital. "No," he says again, because he can.

Lestrade nods, understands, and texts something on his phone. Dr Anderson is the man Sherlock speaks to every week, in an office with chairs and toys and notebooks for colouring, if you want. Sherlock normally just sits in the big chair opposite the desk, leaning on the dark wood and drawing pictures. Sometimes they play a board game with a dice, while Dr Anderson asks gentle questions that Sherlock never answers. He could answer today, he thinks, if Dr Anderson were to ask, but Sherlock doesn't want to. It is nice to have the choice, though.

He came by and spoke to Lestrade, and he spoke to Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't say anything and, after he spoke to Lestrade again, he left. Sherlock will see him soon, he knows; he understands that Dr Anderson and Lestrade are worried, because John has been hurt by a car, and Sherlock does not like cars. He understands that, but he doesn't want to talk about it yet. Maybe he won't want to talk about it ever, except with John, safe inside a blanket fort with a wind-up torch.

"John," Sherlock whispers under his breath. He does it every few minutes, to make sure he still can. Lestrade glances across at him and pats him on the shoulder, and when he leaves his hand there for a moment, Sherlock can feel it shaking. "He'll be okay," he says, staring directly at Lestrade's face. He has been told this a number of times, usually by Lestrade himself, but Sherlock thinks maybe the man needs to hear it this time.

Lestrade's lips pull into a smile and his eyes are too bright for a moment. He pulls Sherlock into a hug, and Sherlock pulls his legs up to wrap around Lestrade's hips, clinging to him like a koala he saw in a library book, and he can feel warm wetness on his neck until Lestrade subtly wipes it away. "He'll be okay," Sherlock repeats softly.

"I know, kiddo," Lestrade says heavily. "He's gonna be just fine." He pulls back, hands set on Sherlock's shoulders so he can look him in the eye. "I'm worried about  _you_  right now, actually. I know you don't want Anderson, but if you change your mind, you just let me know and he'll be here, right?"

Sherlock nods. "Right," he repeats, and the word is small and sharp, in front of his teeth in an instant and gone the next.

He slides away from Lestrade to fetch another cup of water, setting it down beside the others and tipping a little of it into one of the others, to make the levels match. Lestrade watches him in silence.

There are twenty three cups of water surrounding them by the time a nurse paces through the swinging doors at the end of the room, a clipboard in her hands. "John Watson?" she calls out, and Sherlock turns so fast he knocks two of the cups over with his toes. Lestrade surges to his feet, catches Sherlock's hand and hurries toward her.

"Yes, that's us," he says quickly. "How is he? Can we see him?"

The nurse offers a kind smile over the clipboard. "He's doing just fine, sir. The surgery on his leg went well - he's sleeping, but you can come on through."

Sherlock's thoughts descend into a blur of nothing as he jogs along at Lestrade's side, both of them quick-paced in their frantic hurry to see John, to reassure themselves that he is still the same, that he is alright, that he's safe.

They walk through corridors and corridors, past waiting families and more water machines, welcome desks and closed doors, until they come to the right one. The nurse opens the door and slips inside, gesturing Lestrade and Sherlock through a moment later. Inside is another nurse and, tiny in the huge bed and all wired up to machines, is-

"John," Sherlock breathes, darting around Lestrade to press close to the bedside, a terrible pressure that had been about his chest loosening as he looks over the familiar face. John is bruised and he has a gauze patch on his forehead, pale chest exposed with little sucker pads attached and trailing off to a machine that beeps periodically, tucked up to the waist in pale yellow hospital blankets, but still  _John_.

Sherlock lets out a sigh and brushes his fingers across John's hand before sitting down hard on the floor and promptly bursting into tears.

 

* * *

 

When John stirs, everyone in the room is instantly attuned to him, and he lets out a wet cough. His eyelids struggle, flickering for several long moments before they open a slit, his forehead creasing at the surprising amount of effort it takes. John's hand moves an abrupt inch, like an exaggerated twitch, before he lets out a short breath.

"Sh'lock," he mumbles, eyes opening a little wider.

Sherlock stands on the chair Lestrade had nudged closer to the bed when they first took up their posts in the room and leans over as far as he dares, smiling happily into John's sleepy eyes.

"You're awake," he says, sniffing before he starts to cry again. "John.  _John_." The name spills past his lips before Sherlock can help himself; it is his lifeline, his mantra, and it feels so much more real with the boy himself right here. Sherlock sniffs again and his fingers grasp for John's hand, placing them gently together so as not to disturb the tubes that tangle the other into the bed. "Hello," he says to the boy, for the very first time. "Hello John." His fingers tighten without his consent, gripping suddenly and quickly to reassure himself this is all real.

John is blinking slowly, fighting to keep his eyes open, but he smiles so wide Sherlock can see all of the gaps where he's missing teeth. He lets out a contented sigh and nods carefully against his pillows. "You sound…just like…I knew you would," he murmurs, and his eyes slide closed again.

Sherlock watches him for a moment, lips parted because there are so many things he has been so desperate to say to John, but suddenly he can remember none of them. It doesn't matter, though, because they have all the time in the world; they have days and weeks and months - they have  _years_  and Sherlock can fill them with as many words as he likes; he can tell John about the turtles he reads about, and he can tell John that his jumper is on inside out, and he can tell John that he wants extra cheese on his pizza and chocolate ice cream with strawberry sauce. He can tell him that it's alright after John has had a nightmare and he can make sure John knows that he's perfect, that he's the best thing that's happened to Sherlock in a long time and that no matter what John thinks about everything that's happened to him, Sherlock is still going to love him for it.

They have forever, so it doesn't matter that Sherlock's throat feels closed up with relief or that John is drifting back to sleep, because they will have all the moments after, when John wakes up and when Sherlock thinks of all the things he's always wanted to say to him.

Sherlock will always be haunted by his Before - that's not something that will ever go away - but he can weather out the After; he and John can work out how to keep moving forward and, maybe, learn how to love Now.


End file.
